Avalanche
by Pointy Objects
Summary: "I don't think I'm that good of a liar." "I think you are." "Well, I did convince you I wasn't in love with you for nine years..." A/H Comedy/Romance
1. Prologue: Entrée

**Prologue: Adagio**

 **Entrée** -The initial part of a grand pas, which serves as an introduction for the suite of dances comprising the grand pas; The initial appearance of a lead character or characters of a ballet on stage.

* * *

 _'Come on, come on, come on…'_

The moment the stubborn apartment key made contact with the lock, it slipped out and skidded across the wooden door, leaving a light brown trail in its wake, and, more than likely, a charge for damage of property to the current key-holder. The renter huffed and swore under her breath at the door, glancing around, before realizing that she hadn't actually uttered a word in the local language. Even if someone were to hear her, panting in the ill lit hallway and swearing at inanimate objects, she was confident that, if nothing else, she deserved a moment of being a potty mouth.

The moment the lock gave way, she sprang into the dark room and shut the door behind her. Leaning back against the door for good measure, she tried to still her breathing in case she was being followed, but he shaking of her hands refused to calm down. She thought for a moment that the spasming of her limbs came from the realization of what did…what she'd _almost_ done.

Shaking such distracting thoughts from her head, she pushed herself from the door (for the second time that night) and made her way to the phone in the next room. Fishing a ticket stub from her pocket, she dialed the number on the back quickly and nervously, pressing button after button until she came in contact with a real person.

"Hello? Hello, I need to buy a ticket for the next flight to Baltimore. Yes, I'll hold."

* * *

Hello, my lovlies. Guess who's back...

-PointyObjects

P.S. This prologue is dedicated to a one, Maria Yaya Ericsson-Schmidt, who was kind enough to tell me how much she enjoys my work on Facebook today, while I was taking a break from writing this. And my husband, who has listened to so many rants and versions of this story, he could probably write it himself.


	2. Behind The Stick

_**Chapter One: Behind The Stick**_

 _ **Behind the Stick \- **A slang term for the act of getting behind the bar and doing the work of bartending._

* * *

"Lady at the end needs a cocktail."

Helga curled her lip at the lingering cigarette breath behind her. "So go make her one." she replied, trying to count out her cash register.

"Can't. She wants one o' them...froofy drinks."

'Great...' Helga thought, slamming the drawer shut and wiping her hands on the nearest rag. Cracking her knuckles as she entered the barback, Helga allowed her ears to adjust to the noise of the lounge, noting the unusual number of patrons for a Tuesday night. Identifying the person requesting a "froofy drink" wouldn't be difficult; the only person at the end of the bar was a woman, who seemed to have red hair and a pretty face. These observations were based purely on assumptions, as she was currently wearing a pair of large black sunglasses and a large hat. Inside the bar. At 9:00 p.m.

"What can I get you?" Helga asked as politely as she could muster, knowing she should be off work instead of taking a final long and more than likely complicated order.

The woman seemed startled by her voice, but recovered quickly. "Uh, yes. Can I...send a drink to someone in the bar?"

"Sure. What'll it be?" Helga asked, ignoring the notepad in the pocket of her apron. It was her last mix of the night, and even if it wasn't, she was a skilled enough bartender that even if this woman ordered the most complicated drink on their menu, she could remember it without writing it down. Depending on the patron, this was either a sign of her prowess, or very irritating.

"Whats the girliest drink on your menu?" the woman asked, lowering her voice.

Helga raised an eyebrow at the question and stared. "Who _exactly_ are you sending this to?"

"Blond hair, black shirt, table near the door."

Helga discreetly peered over her head and found the aforementioned table. "He's..."

"My fiance', David."

"And the very tanned, brunette sitting next to him, and sliding her hand under the table is...an overly affectionate cousin?" Helga offered.

"My best friend. _My maid of honor_." she replied, through clenched teeth.

Helga nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, you don't want our girliest cocktail." She bent down behind the counter and began assembling cocktail ingredients on the bar top.

"I don't?"

"No, you don't. You want...this." she finished, revealing a clear mason jar filled with bright pink liquid and milky-pink spheres rolling around the bottom.

"What is that?" the woman asked.

"This is a little drink I've been working on." Helga began mixing the ingredients before her, until the beverage was finished in a clear martini glass, rimmed with rainbow sprinkles. "I call it the Blow Pop Bazooka Bubblegum Cocktail. Bubblegum infused vodka, lemon, lime, simple syrup, a little sugar and sprinkles." she said, watching as the woman's eyes light up at the bright pink creation before her. "Oh, I forgot the garnish." Plucking a lollipop from her pocket, Helga swiftly unwrapped it and dropped it in the drink, with a delicate 'clink' on the bottom of the glass.

"It's...perfect." the woman said, shedding her sunglasses. "I can't wait to watch you give it to him."

"I have a better idea." Helga said, smiling devilishly, or normally. "Hey, Ben?" she called tot eh other end of the bar. A man in all black looked up from his drink order and began making his way over.

"Who is _that_?" the woman asked, clearly her interest shifted from the drink before her to the man coming towards them. Helga was almost offended, but a tall drink of water like Ben could make even the most brilliant cocktail creations dull in comparison.

"That's Ben. Very sweet, very single Ben. Great friend, good kisser. Don't ask me how I know that. Christmas party, four years ago. Big mistake. Not for you, for me. Nice guy." Helga rambled. Plastering on a smile, she addressed Ben the moment he stood next to her. "Ben, this is my new friend..."

"Brenda." she answered, extending her hand.

"Brenda. And she would very much appreciate it if you could take this drink over to table and don't be afraid to turn on the charm."

Ben looked confused, not only at the drink (which was not currently on the bar's menu as it involved not one, but two trademarked items in its name), but why Helga needed him to deliver the drink. "Uh, I guess..." he began. "...though, I much prefer redheads to brunettes..."

Helga rolled her eyes. He was turning on the charm far earlier than necessary, but at least he still had some to work with. "Well, that's fine, because this drink is for the blond." She and Brenda both smiled knowingly until he understood. He put the drink on a black tray and walked over to the table. Helga couldn't make out everything Ben said, but overheard the words "here's your usual" and ask if the man would be back on Thursday, while depositing the drink on the table and placing his hand on this shoulder.

Brenda was having a difficult time fighting back laughter and Helga wanted nothing more than to give Ben a round of applause and shout 'Encore!' when the brunette pulled her coat from the seat next to her and stormed out.

Brenda turned back to the bar, removing her hat and pulling a perfectly manicured hand through her long red hair. "You're brilliant. I'm so glad you're my bartender."

"I'm glad too. And you're right. I am pretty brilliant." Untying her apron and hanging it on the peg behind the bar, Helga pulled her blonde hair out of the ponytail. "See you around." she said, moving from behind the bar and pulling her phone out of her back pocket. The bar exited down a flight of stairs and directly onto a very busy Pratt Street. On the sidewalk by the door, Helga watched as a flustered David tried to reason with the perky brunette, making very little headway. Deciding to add a little icing to the cake, she maneuvered to walk between them, winking at the man and uttering a sultry 'See you Friday, David' as she departed. Before she was ten paces away, a shout of _'How many people do you meet at this bar?!'_ rang out down the street. Helga almost laughed out loud as she turned the corner and massaged her right arm. That night, she'd been called upon, as usual, to be the main purveyor of cocktails, having the most experience in making them, and, as such, developed a pair of very sore, though defined, biceps in the process. On any other night, her only desire would be to head home, order a pizza and bury herself in blankets for the remainder of the evening.

Her friends, however, had a different evening planned altogether.

 _"You expect me to believe that you just want me to 'tag along' on your date night next week? I was born at night, Phoebe, not last night; I know what you're doing." Helga said, tossing a red block in the toy chest across the spacious living room. "Can I at least get a name?"_

 _"Whose name?" Phoebe asked, as she dried dishes. Sounds of splashing could be heard from down the hall._

 _"The name of the guy who volunteers with Gerald-o, or the cute guy who moved in downstairs with the adorable bulldog, or whoever will round out Tuesday's sham of a date night that you're planning."_

 _Phoebe was silent for a long while, with her back to her friend. Helga knew her best friend was a terrible liar and was hoping that she'd crack soon. "Gerald did say something about having dinner with a friend of his."_

 _"I knew it!" Helga exclaimed from across the room. The kitchen and living room sat in one area; an "open concept" format that Phoebe initially scoffed at, referring to it as "lazy home design", but after the birth of her son, she was more than appreciative of the ability to see and hear him from almost any room in the apartment. Not to mention the tall windows keep most of the dwelling feeling less confined and stuffy. "I really don't need to be set up..."_

 _"I know, trust me. You're far better of single." Phoebe said, without turning around._

 _"Thanks, I think..."_

 _"You know what I mean. You're far better off without-"_

 _"It's fine. Really. So what's the scoop on this guy? Homicidal maniac? Serial misogynist? Does he chew with his mouth open?" Helga asked, walking over and swiping a cupcake off the tray of leftover dessert. Gerald always made too many cupcakes, but Helga would never complain about it._

 _"You have so little faith in our matchmaking skills..."_

 _"Well, after Ivan and the endless steaks..."_

 _"Ivan was...nice." Phoebe suggested, over the roar of laughter from down the hall. "There better be actual bathing going on in there!" she shouted back, only sounding the tiniest bit authoritarian._

 _"He sent back so many steaks, I had to use almost all my tips from that night just so the waiter wouldn't spit in our food._ 'This ones too rare, that one was too well done, I asked for a New York Strip Steak, not an old tire.' _I wanted to murder him."_

 _Phoebe thought for a moment and returned her attention to the dishes. Helga knew she won, but recalling the incident left a funny taste in her mouth that she couldn't blame on Phoebe's amazing dinner. "_ _He wasn't that bad. He did say he had a sensitive stomach, though." Phoebe replied, even though her tone denoted that he really was that bad._

 _"A sensitive stomach and an empty head."_

 _"What ever happened with Michael?" Phoebe asked, concerned. She was aware her friend had a knack for going out of her way to intimidate people._

 _Helga licked her fingers of remaining icing and deposited her wrapper in the kitchen's tiny trash can. "Eh. He was okay. No spark, though." Michael was the nicest of the men Phoebe tried to set her up with. He and Phoebe were residents together at Johns Hopkins, but hadn't spoken much since college. A random reunion brought them back in touch, and when he mentioned recently ending a relationship, Phoebe was quick to plan the date._

 _"Spark? Since when do you care about a spark?"_

 _"I don't know." Helga said, eyeing another cupcake. She'd suggested too many times that Gerald quit the tour business and just open up a bakery, but then she considered that he might start asking her to pay for his food, and thought better of the idea. "He's getting married, apparently."_

 _"Married?! You guys went out last fall. Who is he marrying?"_

 _"Somebody he met at work, I guess. It's Facebook official and everything." Helga said._

 _"What's her name? Maybe I remember her."_

 _"Paul."_

 _Phoebe was silent for a moment, thinking. "That explains the spark." Helga merely raised her eyebrow in reply before speaking._

 _"I know what you're trying to do. I just hate being surprised." Helga said, trying a calmer approach. The statement itself was only a half-truth, as she was very happily surprised when, on a week when her bank account nearly matched her age, Helga was invited over for dinner at her best friend's house, which almost always came with a plate or two of leftovers to take home._

 _"All I know…" Phoebe began, under her breath. "Is that Gerald said he wants to have dinner with a 'friend' of his."_

 _Helga dramatically fell backwards on the ivory couch, wondering briefly how Gerald and Phoebe managed to have a pristine ivory couch_ and _a three-year old._

 _"You guys know I'm happy, right?"_

 _"Of course I do. What are you talking about, Helga?" Phoebe asked._

 _"I'm talking about some people being happy with kids, and a husband and a beautiful apartment. And some people are like me. Give me a beer, pointe shoes that don't wear out after two weeks, and the password to your Netflix account, and I'm a happy girl." Helga said, sitting up, sloppily. Her ponytail was now sideways and crooked, but Phoebe and Gerald's apartment was one of the very few places where these trivial matters were of no worry to her. She couldn't imagine being this comfortable with anyone else._

 _"Trust me, Helga. I know you're happy. Just…indulge us old, married people this one last time. No more after that, I promise." She pleaded. Helga merely huffed and flopped back down on the couch._

 _"I'm gonna need extra potatoes in my leftovers, and you have a deal."_

As Helga approached the restaurant, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She was expecting Phoebe to have seen her from the street and directing her to come in, as opposed to running like a madman down the street, like she wanted. Pulling her phone out of the pocket of her leather jacket, she read the message:

 **'Putting Levi to bed. Be there in 15 minutes. The reservation is under my name.'**

Entering the establishment, Helga considered cashing Phoebe's reservation, but took a seat at the far-less-crowded bar instead. Shaking off her jacket, she eyed the beer menu from over the head of the bartender.

"What'll it be?' he asked, obstructing Helga's view of the list of draft beers.

"I'll just have a Natty Boh, on tap."

"And I'll have what the lady is having."

Helga's eyes widened (instead of rolling repeatedly, as would be her normal response), as she swiveled opposite of the voice next to her. Working in bar taught her many things, most of all that people -some people- will stop at literally nothing to strike up a conversation with another person at the bar. She and her coworkers often took bets at how many drinks someone would buy another person at the bar before being outright rejected.

Helga nodded in thanks when her drink was brought to her, but also heard the telltale slide of a full glass on oak bartop, and knew that whoever this guy was, he wouldn't be deterred by his out-and-out rejection by way of swiveling barstool.

"To your health." she heard him say from behind her, even though she'd already begun drinking. The short sputter from behind almost made her laugh out loud.

"Never had a Natty Boh?" she asked, mentally kicking herself for giving in, even in this small way.

"Can't say I have." he replied, coughing.

"It's _only_ the unofficial beer of Baltimore. You must be new here." Helga said, taking a long gulp from her own glass.

"You could say that."

Helga rolled her eyes, knowing she'd regret her move, but not being able to resist the urge to thoroughly educate what she assumed to be a pretentious yuppie on Baltimore, beer, and bar etiquette. Switching her beer to her left hand and rest it on the bar, she turned her body to the right, and immediately wished she'd made a run for it as soon as she saw the building.

The taste of her beer was bitter in the back of her mouth. The sweat from her glass was too warm. The background noise of the bar had an odd, ringing sound to it, like a high pitched whistle.

Every movement reminded her of too many moments that she refused to revisit over the past year. Suddenly, Helga could not shake the familiar feeling of a heavy wooden door against her back, wet hair clinging to the curve of her neck and a warm hand cupping her chin-

"I have to go." She said, jumping out of her chair before realizing the words were out of her own mouth and awkwardly trying to put her hand through the sleeve of her coat, and fish out payment for her drink. "Keep the change." she said, secretly hoping, even in her current state of distress, that she didn't pay for a $4.50 drink with a twenty dollar bill. Weaving through patrons of the restaurant to get to the door, Helga heard the familiar voice behind her, and before she could ask herself why she didn't recognize it before, she watched Gerald and Phoebe advancing through the door.

"Surprise!" Gerald said, hugging Phoebe's shoulder. Phoebe grinned as wide as her tiny face would allow. Helga was thoroughly confused as she looked between the smiling couple.

"What's going on?" She asked, a hai harsher than a whisper, even though the sinking feeling in her stomach answered for her.

"We got the gang back together! Isn't this great?!" Phoebe said, abandoning Gerald's embrace to approach Helga.

'Yeah...great.'

* * *

A/N: That was not even a twist. I'm nearing M. Night Shamalyan territory with my untwistful twists. Sorry.

I've been informed that long Author's Notes regarding long absences are generally despised, so I will spare you. Lets just chalk it up to life in general, new obsessions (blame BBC), and...more life. I'm not abandoning this one though. Because if you're reading this, that means that I figured out how to get through the second chapter, and the story is so clear after that. The first two chapters are miserable. Stick around.

Love,

PointyObjects


	3. Échappé

_Chapter Two: Echappe_

 _Echappe \- a ballet movement in which the dancer jumps from the fifth position and lands on the toes or the balls of the feet in the second position. From the French word '_ _é_ _chapper" or "to escape"._

* * *

Helga was slowly depositing flakes of black nail polish onto the restaurants mostly clean dining room floor. The floor was dark wood, patterned into some larger shape that encompassed the entire room, but one that Helga couldn't figure out from her seat. It would hide the chips of nail polish for a few days, but eventually some child would throw down a bread roll, and in their parent's search for it, their eye would catch the flecks of gold in the black nail polish and the sanitation practices of the staff would be questioned before the appetizers even arrived. IN her mind, Helga mentally apologized and continued stripping her thumb nail bare, as the conversation around the table slowed.

"Are you not hungry, Helga?" Phoebe actually sounded concerned. She was the only one who delayed in the excitement of the unplanned-though-probably-well-calculated reunion, and her pokerface was apparently not as good as she thought.

Helga trained herself to listen with one ear – Bartender Ears, she called them- and called on the skill to stay ready to be engaged when necessary, but enough within her own mind to retreat when she needed to. And she really, really needed to retreat.

"I just had a late lunch at work." She answered over her half eaten chicken sandwich. She was in no mood to sit and eat, only to run, but love for her friend kept her in her seat. At least for a little while. "Ya know, I think I'm going to head out."

"Already?" Gerald asked. He and Arnold kept the conversation around the table (circular, so she could tell herself that she wasn't sitting _next_ to Arnold) moving, while Helga shot Phoebe desperate looks over her food, and Phoebe remained oblivious to them.

"Yeah, I was thinking of visiting my mom tomorrow, and…" she said, trailing off on purpose. Gerald and Phoebe were both aware of the physical drain the drive to Bethesda took on her, coupled with a mentally exhausting visit and would let her off. She didn't like the notion of using her mother as an excuse to leave an awkward dinner, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Phoebe asked, quietly, as Helga counted out the money for her meal and tip.

"No, that's okay. I'll be fine. Give Levi a goodnight kiss for me." She said, standing up, and shrugging on her jacket. "It was good seeing you again." She mumbled, leaving the dining area and heading for the door.

The cool outside air bit at her cheeks, and pulling her jacket closer to her face, Helga was glad to see that the streets weren't too busy. Walking towards the nearest bus stop a few blocks over, Helga mentally kicked herself. She didn't have to ignore Arnold the entire night. But he seemed happy enough chatting up with Gerald. She knew she'd have to explain her aloof behavior to Phoebe and Gerald eventually, but decided to think about it later. She'd rather think about how best to put the entire night behind her.

"Hey Helga!"

Or running after her. Turning around, she schooled her features into something other than a scowl. "Yeah?"

"You left this." Arnold said, holding out a black sweater to her.

"No, I didn't."

"Oh." He said, looking closer at the garment. "Gerald said it was yours."

Helga took the sweater from him, trying to avoid his hand, but still reveling in the heat from the spot where his hand held it. "I'm pretty sure this is Phoebe's."

"Oh."

"It's a size extra-small, petite. Is there anything about me that's extra-small or petite?' she asked. As soon as the words came out, she wished she could snatch them back. The tone made her sound more upset than she was and the words themselves were suggestive, to say the least. "Don't answer that."

"Gerald did say I should walk you to your car." He offered.

Helga instantly wished for warmer weather. The cold of the evening was making his cheeks turn red, in turn, making her own cheeks turn red. But then, warm weather made her remember the last time she saw him, and there was no returning from those sorts of thoughts. "I didn't drive."

"Bike?"

"Not today."

"Private jet?" he asked, smiling this time.

"Out for repairs." Before she could stop herself, Helga found herself smiling too. "Goodnight, Arnold." She said, turning to walk away.

"That's the first time you've said my name all night." He replied, sounding almost hurt. Helga stopped in her tracks and sighed. "You're not very subtle when you're avoiding people."

"I wasn't-", she began.

"You were. Some homecoming."

Helga didn't mean to, but she groaned audibly. This was worse than Ivan and the Steakhouse Catastrophe. At least when he left, she _wanted_ him to. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I just wasn't expecting to see you tonight." _'Or ever'_ , she thought.

"You were expecting…" he began. Helga silently wished the wind would quit blowing his hair all over his face and making him look like some kind of Pinterest-made-real-model-minus-the-Apple-Crumb-Cake.

"I was expecting to be ambushed by a terrible blind date. Again."

"Again?"

"Again. Phoebe and Gerald like setting me up. I think it's like a sport to them; who can get me to go out with the weirdest person they know."

"They wouldn't do that. They love you. They probably just want you to be happy." Arnold offered.

She didn't realize it until then, but they were no longer in front of the restaurant, but walking down the sidewalk.

"I am happy. I have good friends, two good jobs and a few side ones. I might even get a dog." Helga shoved her hands in her pockets, and briefly wondered why women's coat pockets were so small before turning her attention back to the conversation. "So you're thinking of staying?"

"You _were_ listening…yeah, maybe. I have some loose ends to tie up here."

For the first time that night, Helga wasn't to blame for the awkward silence that followed. "I'm sorry I...I never got to say it in person..."

"It's fine, it's...it's been a long time."

"But they were your grandparents. That's...I know you were close to them. I'm sorry."

"It's really okay. But thank you."

"No problem. And if you need any help, you know, getting acclimated...I can help." Helga balled her hands into fists, but hid them in the crooks of her elbows as she walked. She shook her head slightly, thinking of the last time she waked down a mostly abandoned street with Arnold.

"Helga Pataki, offering to help? Am I in the right place?" Arnold replied, stopping to look around.

"Har de har har. This offer of assistance comes with a condition, Footballhead." she said, stopping in front of him. Their proximity was due more to her need for him to know how serious she was.

"Footballhead...conditions...yeah, it's you, Helga."

Helga lowered her voice. "Phoebe and Gerald can't know about last year. I would like to keep it that way."

For a split-second, Helga saw shock and hurt flash across his face, and for the third time that night, she wished she had the intuition to speak only after thinking.

" _That_ ashamed, huh?" he asked, stepping back.

"Of course not. I just...they...I never got around to telling them, and it'd be weird to tell them _now_ , and...Levi is always with them, and little kids shouldn't hear about...that stuff...not that anything happened, of course-"

"Of course."

"So...no talking." she said, instead of asking, stepping back. From down the street, they hardly looked like old friends reconnecting for the first time in a year, agreeing not to talk about the _last_ time they reconnected.

Arnold closed the gap that Helga made, putting both of his hands on her shoulders, in a way that was supposed to be reassuring. Helga only felt unnerved and vulnerable. Again. "Deal. My lips are sealed." Helga chose to ignore aforementioned lips, and looked at his eyes instead. They didn't help much to ease her nervousness, either.

"Great." she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering too much. "Thanks."

"Since you were so quiet at dinner," Arnold said, removing his hands an stepping back. Helga tried not to miss the warmth of his hands on her arms. "Mind filling me in?"

"On what?"

"On everything. What's been going on since the last time I-" he stopped, giving her a pointed look across the sidewalk. "-didn't see you?"

Helga rolled her eyes and continued walking. _'So much for remaining pleasantly aloof...'_

* * *

A/N: Introductory chapters are always hard for me, but I'm glad I got this out. Even in Fanfiction, it's hard reintroducing characters, and I'm not even done yet. Just give this story a chance, it's going to get really good.

Also, I'm a huge fan of putting a lot of thought into small details in my stories, so all I'm gonna say is pay attention to the titles of the chapters and how they relate to Helga's profession(s). It took me a long time to come up with them.

Thanks for tuning in.

-PointyObjects


	4. Chaser

Chapter Three: Chaser

 _Chaser- Noun. Anything consumed quickly after a shooter or straight shot of alcohol; meant to ease the taste/mask the strength of a drink._

* * *

"Okay, this one has to be good." Helga said, sliding the cup towards her pickiest consumer of the night. She watched as he eagerly held the receptacle in both hands, steadied the cup and spilled most of the contents on himself before tasting a drop.

"I think I might have over-served. Somebody needs to come and take this guy to bed." Helga said, shaking her head and smiling. Her patron finally made contact with the glass, and after a few long, enthusiastic sips, rested his cup down with a single word: "Dood."

"I'll take it!" Helga exclaimed. Her latest customer only laughed in response. "Another point for me."

"I can't believe your job actually has you make 'kiddie cocktails'. What kind of message does that send to a child?" Phoebe asked, wiping Levi's face and chin and taking the empty cup for his tiny reach.

"I think it's something along the lines of: If your parents have enough money, you can demand almost anything from adults, especially those who live most of their lives off of tips." Helga suggested. "It's just pomegranate juice, lemon juice, strawberry puree and a banana slice for garnish."

"That actually sounds pretty good." Phoebe replied.

"If the bar decides to put it on the menu, I even get to name it. I'm thinking of calling it 'Downtown as Fruits'." She said, deliberately eyeing Gerald and Arnold, who sat across the room on Phoebe's still spotless off-white couch nursing earlier-made concoctions of hers. Three mouths was better than two, especially when it came time for Helga to review and hone her bartending skills for annual review. The past month passed without incident and as such, she didn't feel quite right leaving Arnold out. Most especially, she chose to conduct her practice session in Phoebe and Gerald's far nicer kitchen, and couldn't really control whom they invited. Apparently, Arnold was invited over often.

"That's not funny." Gerald remarked, looking serious.

"I happen to disagree." she said, as Gerald pushed himself off of the couch. "I find it hilarious..

Gerald pulled Levi out of his high chair gently and said, "Come on, son. Time for bed. Let's get you in your pajamas before she tries to dress you like food."

"Who says I already haven't?" Helga retorted, noticing that Phoebe, who usually left bathing and bedtime to Gerald, followed him into Levi's room. Reminding herself to kill her best friend later, she busied herself with cleaning up her dirtied tools and tins, and avoiding direct eye contact with Arnold, who made his way over to the spacious counter.

"What'll you have, Slim?" she asked, depositing glasses in the deep sink of the island in the kitchen.

"That Old Fashioned was pretty good."

"Of course it was. I made it, after all." she replied.

"And so humble." Arnold laughed, taking a seat next to Levi's abandoned high chair. A comfortable silence enveloped the room. Helga forgot about avoiding eye contact, remembering the agreement they made the first night she'd seen Arnold again, and the peace that she started feeling after he fell seamlessly back into the group. She remained cautiously optimistic when with Phoebe and Gerald, because, according to Arnold, he;d been talking to Gerald for a few months, and the incident never came up. She was confident that he had no reason to talk now. When they were alone, however, she was far more restrained. It didn't take much for him to unnerve her and she didn't like that.

"Well, I can tell you didn't like my Whiskey Sour." she bit back.

"It just tasted funny. I've never had one before." he said, resting his glass on the counter top and leaving it there. Helga always found herself very aware of where his hands were. Like someone afraid of spiders and sees one crawl across their room. Always vigilant. Always watching.

"It's probably the egg white. It throws a lot of people off." Helga grabbed a clean rag to clean out her shaker tin.

"It's not too bad."

"I'll take it."

"I thought you had to perfect these drinks for your exam..."

"Yeah, yeah...", Helga rolled her eyes. Every year, the Baltimore Standard Hotel, the swankiest hotel in the city, and location of The Red Line Bar and Lounge, made its bartenders review the entire menu of drinks and classic cocktails, as well as submit new ideas for the Bar's menu. Helga had undergone three rigorous tests and each year, came out ahead of the pack, but never quite on top. The bar was where the elite of Baltimore went to relax and socialize. Helga had met her fair share of local celebrities, and even the odd NFL star in her time there. As opposed to sticking rigidly to the drink recipes, Helga allowed herself a little wiggle room, knowing that if someone were dropping more than ten bucks on a drink, they didn't really want a run-of-the-mill Whiskey Sour. "What's the next drink?" she asked, nodding toward the list next to his hand. She contemplated reaching for it herself, but chickened out.

"A Bloody Mary."

"Easy." she said, as she began assembling her ingredients. "So, I heard you and Gerald-o talking about visas and stuff."

"You still call him that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Helga sometimes wished she could enjoy Arnold's company without having to worry about him looking at her. "I still call you 'FootballHead'."

"This is true." he answered. "Yeah, Gerald and Phoebe agreed to sponsor me. But after that I have to apply for an actual visa."

"So, what exactly does that mean?"

"It means, if I can't find or show proof of citizenship in three months, I might have to go back to San Lorenzo and stay there until I get some." Arnold replied.

"Seriously? Going to public school in America, having two, lily-white American parents and a grandfather who socked Hitler in the face, isn't proof enough?" Helga asked, searching the counter for celery salt.

"My grandpa liked telling tall tales Helga. I don't think he actually punched Hitler." Arnold said.

Helga sprinkled in the celery salt, before grabbing a rectangular yellow and red can from Phoebe and Gerald's pantry. "I bet you don't believe that our government is run by a legion of lizard-people, either?"

"...no, I don't." Arnold said, catching a whiff of pepper. Helga wasn't joking about making her own variations on drinks. He had yet to see her measure anything for this one.

"Well, I like to believe that he did. Choose your truth, Arnold."

"Anyway..." he began. "I'd need a valid birth certificate, and since I don't have any government issued identification, I'd need proof of my parent's citizenship too."

"Well, the birth certificate might be hard to get."

"No kidding."

"Well, that's what you get for being born on the side of an exploding mountain, FootballFace." Helga said, pointing the tip of her knife at Arnold. She couldn't decide between a lemon for garnish or lime, so she sliced both.

"I didn't really have much say in that matter. And I wasn't born _on_ the mountain."

"Oh, next to the mountain, _excuse me_." Helga said, dramatically putting her hands over her heart. "How could I forget?"

"How do you even remember that?" he asked.

"Bartender memory. Somebody gets loose lips when they have too much tequila." she said, matter-of-factly.

Arnold was silent for a moment, enough so that Helga was forced to meet his eyes, as much as she'd avoided it since Phoebe and Gerald left the room. She noticed they were taking a suspiciously long time bathing their infant son that night.

"I thought we weren't talking about that..." he said, throwing her own request back at her.

Helga often got the feeling that Arnold didn't like their 'not talking' agreement, even though he never brought it up in front of their friends.

"We're _not_ talking about it. We're sampling this Bloody Mary and being brutally honest about it." she answered, pushing the glass toward him. it was then that she realized she might have overdone it on the garnish. Three cherry tomatoes, a lemon and lime wedge, a stalk of celery and asparagus and sliced green onions.

Arnold took a long sip and immediately began coughing.

"That bad?!"

"There' some...seasoning, or something on top. What is that?" Arnold asked, between coughs.

Helga stared deadpanned. "Are you kidding me? That's _Old Bay_. The official seasoning of this grand state and the only acceptable topping for a Bloody Mary!"

Arnold blinked. "I had no idea there was an official...spice."

Helga rolled her eyes. "Forget about American citizenship, hand over your Maryland card."

"You said be brutally honest..."

"Only if you're going to say nice things...if it's good, be honest; if it's bad, lie." she advised him. "So...I guess going back to the boarding house and searching through boxes is a 'no'?"

Arnold was quiet again. "I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

"Understood." Helga said, replacing the vodka in the freezer. "If you need hand with that...I mean, I could help, or whatever."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Trust me. It's not something you want to do alone."

Arnold contemplated that statement for a moment, but decided against asking more about it. Helga was stubborn enough to shut up as soon as someone got too close, even if she invited them in to begin with. "Sorry."

"It's fine." she said, methodically rearranging her tins, and standing on her toes in the process. "Hey! I just thought of something."

"I'm afraid to ask." Arnold said, moving the still full glass between his hands. Helga stealthily avoided looking at the them.

"You know in the movies and stuff when someone's about to be...deported, so they get married, and a wacky romantic-comedy ensues?" she asked, excited.

"...Yeah?"

"You should do that! They can't kick you out of the country if you're married."

Arnold sighed. "You know that's not how it works, right? Besides, I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

Helga huffed. "You know for someone who likes looking on the bright side so much, you sure are a wet blanket." she said. "It's only illegal if you're _paying_ someone to marry you. There are plenty of single women in this city who will get married for free."

"Yeah, and where am I supposed to find someone willing to marry me in the next few months, with or without an exorbitant amount of money?" he asked, abandoning the stool across from her and walking around the counter.

Helga made an audible growl. She especially liked being a bartender because there was a visible barrier between herself and other people. The barback was her sanctuary and private space, and she could retreat whenever she felt like it without being judged. but, now, she wasn't at a bar. She was in a kitchen, not even her own, and Arnold was not abiding by the Barback Rule. There was no longer eighteen inches of oak between them, just air, and not enough for her liking. He was vehemently breaking it, and didn't even know.

"Exorbitant? Has anyone ever told you that you read too much?" she said, throwing lighthearted insults in an effort to steady her breathing. "Anyway, there are plenty of places. The internet, for one-"

"Like a mail-order bride?" Arnold asked, aghast.

"No! If anything, _you'd_ be the mail-order bride...I mean like a dating site. You set up your profile, upload a few flattering photos and a quote from Catcher in The Rye, and watch the ladies roll in. You'd do great on a dating site."

"You think so?" Arnold asked, moving closer.

Helga rounded the other side of the kitchen island, for no reason at all, save for a way to create more space between them. She searched the floor for a stray toy of Levi's but Gerald was a little too thorough in his fatherly duties as of late. "Of course. You're well-traveled, smart, in decent shape-"

"Decent?"

"And you actually _want_ to get married. Huge plus. You'll be hitched before you can say 'marriage fraud'. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could end up marrying a psychopath I hardly know." Arnold said, stating the obvious.

Helga let her head fall back, exasperated. " _Fine_ , Arnold, if we can't find you anyone half-way sane to marry, in three months, I'll marry you."

Arnold raised his eyebrow. "No, you wouldn't."

"Probably not. But at least you'd be marrying a psychopath you _do_ know."

"Very funny."

"Seriously, if you can't get a single person in this city to marry you, I would be happy to help...for an exorbitant amount of money." she joked. "But until then, allow me to work my magic."

"Who's working magic?" Gerald asked, coming out of the baby's room.

"About time, Tall Hair. I thought Phoebe decided to throw you out with the bath water." Helga said. "I'm setting Arnold up."

"Helga," Gerald began. "You _hate_ getting set up."

"True. But Arnold actually wants to meet someone. And I know the perfect place..."

* * *

A/N: I LOVED writing this chapter. This is actually the chapter that started this story. Oh my goodness, this is where the story starts getting funny and cool and great. If you're reading this, then some of my favorite parts are already being worked out and formulated. I hope you guys love this as much as I do.

A/N: Part Two: The Sequal: Okay, two things I want to address, that I realize I haven't (yet, at least). One, it has been brought to my attention by one of my favorite writers/readers, that I never quite clarified the setting, and for that I apologize. It's briefly mentioned in this chapter, but just to clarify: I've heard a lot of people say that Hillwood is a lot like New York or Seattle, so a lot of fanfiction gets set there. But I moved to Baltimore Maryland three years ago, and I swear some of the neighborhoods around here look so much like Hillwood. The elementary school my husband went to even has a concrete playground, which I didn't even know existed. So, I'm setting this fanfic in Baltimore, but with the understanding that Hillwood is like a neighborhood or borough _in_ the city. For example, I live in an area of Baltimore called Arbutus. It's got a Baltimore zip code, and when the riots (ugh) were going on, I had family calling to make sure we were okay, but technically , it's a neighborhood within the city, with its own name. Anyway, that's that.

Second: This was an observation brought about by a Guest reviewer, so I can't review to them personally (which I prefer, because I can ramble longer…). Right now, the story is kind of crawling. There are illusions to some incident happening, and other small shenanigans, but not much else. This is on purpose, and I know it's boring, but it's going to get good. I promise. I've always liked the thought of building up a fondness for characters (even ones we're already familiar with) before throwing them into the action right away. So that's why I'm moving kind of slowly. There's serious hilarity and romance and deep conversations coming…but not yet. Thanks for all the love!


	5. Pas de Deux

Chapter Four: **Pas de deux**

 **Pas de deux** \- a dance for two.

* * *

" _A Bridal Expo_?"

"Go ahead, you can say it. I'm a genius." Helga said, staring up at the Convention Center as if she'd built it herself.

"Helga, Bridal Conventions are for people who are _already_ engaged. Do you want me to be a homewrecker?" Arnold asked.

Helga sighed. "Yes, Arnold, Bridal Expos are geared towards engaged persons. But who do you think these brides and grooms bring with them?" When he shrugged in response, she went on. "Their bridesmaids. Their sometimes single, maybe desperate bridesmaids, who are so tired of hearing about centerpieces, and cushion-cut engagement rings and seating charts, that they're either repulsed by the notion of marriage, or _dying_ to do it themselves."

"...You _are_ a genius."

"I _know_!" she said, slapping his arm playfully. "Now, here's our story: you're my twin brother, born four minutes before me, of course. Our parents were tragically killed in a skiing accident when we were ten. We are each other's only family and as such, I've chosen you to be my Male of Honor."

"Male of Honor?"

"It's a real thing, look it up." Helga said, fishing a ring out of her pocket and slipping it on her left ring finger.

"Whats that?" Arnold asked.

"It's a decoy ring. You can't be my Male of Honor if I'm not engaged."

"I feel like you're making up some of these terms."

"It's what I wear when guys get a little too friendly at the bar. And don't worry too much; I'll do most of the talking."

"I don't think this is going to work." Arnold said, walking toward the front of the Convention Center anyway. Helga advised them to meet out front that afternoon, when the traffic on Pratt Street wasn't too heavy. Arnold never remembered Downtown Baltimore being so lively and busy on a Saturday afternoon, but Helga told him the city had recently been pumping money into different areas of the city to increase the draw of tourists, starting with Downtown.

"Of course it is! It paints you in a great light. Our parents were skiers, which means we come from money and we're athletic, you're a brother, which means you can be trusted, and you're willing to be the sole member of your sister's bridal party, which means your masculinity isn't fragile." Helga told him.

"How do you do that?' he asked.

Helga smiled. "I enjoy reading and I'm a pathological liar."

"I guess you're the master. Let's go find some bridesmaids." Arnold said, holding the glass door open for her. Before them was a wide lobby, with lush carpeting that led to four wide doors. beyond them would be the tables and presentation platforms set up for the convention. Helga handed the concierge their tickets and accepted two gift bags. As she handed Arnold his, she stopped abruptly.

"What's wrong?" Arnold asked, behind her.

"I just thought of something..."

"Not again..."

"Arnold..." Helga began, turning around. She reached out her hand, in a gesture that meant to denote comfort, but she eventually just settled her hand on his shoulder, trying to smile sympathetically. "Before we go in there, maybe I should tell you...since you haven't been in the country in a while..."

"Tell me what?"

Helga took a deep breath. "In Maryland, well, everywhere now, one is able to choose one's life partner, even outside of societal standards of what people might expect one to choose in a life partner. In case you were wondering."

His only response was to stare blankly at her.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" she asked.

"No."

Helga removed her hand from his shoulder, her first unsolicited and voluntary physical contact with him since The Incident Not to Be Spoken Of, as they had come to call it, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "What I'm trying to ask you is, we've come here to meet some bridesmaids..."

"...yes?"

"Would you rather meet some...groomsmen?" Helga asked, her eyebrows (two, not longer one) reaching nearly her hairline.

"What? No!" he answered, stepping back, before realizing he making a bit of a scene. Maybe they could play it off as a 'sibling squabble'. "What makes you think that?"

"Nothing, really. Just checking. Geez, I take back what I said about your masculinity not being fragile." she huffed, beginning to walk away. She was stunned then, when Arnold grasped her wrist, and promptly whirled her around to face him. Helga immediately remembered how much she did not like being within close proximity to him and his too-green eyes, but also found it difficult to step away.

"I don't think anything about our 'incident' would give you that idea, but maybe a reminder is in order..."

Helga had the unmistakable feeling of a strawberry being lodged in her throat, causing her esophagus to constrict and her face to redden. After a moment of sputtering, she was able to speak. "No, I do not need any reminders, Arnold. And even if I did, which I don't, you are supposed to be my brother. And seeing as we are not children trapped in an attic by our homicidal mother and grandmother, maybe you should back up a little bit?!" she asked, through clenched teeth.

Arnold backed up, not nearly as shaken up by the interaction as his 'faux-sister', but no longer in the happy mood they entered the building with. "Let's just get this over with."

* * *

Four. Arnold was currently watching his fourth Bridal Fashion Show. Which, in his 27 years of living, made for a grand total of…four. He was beginning to lose the feeling in his legs and found himself fidgeting in his hard metal chair. Why would so many people pay so much money to sit on uncomfortable chairs and look at wedding gowns, he could not understand.

He did have to admit, some of them were pretty. A purplish-pink number came down the runway a few minutes earlier, and even though he and Helga were in the third row, he was almost smacked in the face with an ostrich feather. He hoped Helga wouldn't try to set him up with anyone who wanted to wear that.

Speaking of his friend, he was hoping to look to her for some sort of relief from his boredom; she was there, after all, to help him. And, as far as he remembered, she wasn't really into girly things like wedding gown fashion shows, unless she was shamelessly throwing rotten fruit at the models. When he looked over, not only was Helga paying strict attention to the dresses coming down the aisle, but instead of hurling fruit, she scribbled furiously in a small notepad each time a designer's name was announced.

"What are you writing?" he asked, leaning over. The steady beat of the music in the showroom was loud, but she heard him, as well as a few other attendees. An angry looking woman with very straight, very black hair turned around to glare at him. Helga glared back before answering him.

"See that girl in the blue across the runway, third row back?" Helga said, not pointing. She schooled him early in the day not to point at whatever woman she was talking about, because it makes people self-conscious. Arnold just found it humorous that Helga was giving him lessons in etiquette. Even though the lighting in the showroom was dim, save for the bright lights over the runway, he looked in the direction she told him and nodded. "The only time she wasn't making googly eyes at you was during the Vera Wang show and when the blonde next to her nudged her when the…" she said, squinting in the dark at her notebook. "…Oleg Cassini Drape Gown in Ivory came down. The one _with_ the chiffon cape, obviously."

"What do _any_ of those words mean?" Arnold asked.

The lights over the seats came on, and after a round of applause from the audience, the crowd stood and began moving out, amidst a cloud of chatter. Arnold stood and stretched, hoping he was done with bridal fashion shows for the remainder of his life.

"They mean, she's obviously interested in you, and she's not the bride. Her friend got her attention because she probably wants to try on that dress after the show. We just have to find the Oleg Cassini dressing rooms and wait." Helga was currently looking through her bag of free gifts, and making her way to the dressing rooms for specialty gowns. "Why don't they put food in one of these things? A granola bar, some of those disgusting candy-covered almonds...anything, I'm starving."

"What about the...Vanna White thing?" he asked, scratching the back of his head.

"Vera Wang." Helga corrected. "And, that's nothing. Her gowns are gorgeous. Even I got distracted when they came down."

"I think the dress is only as beautiful as the woman wearing it." Arnold remarked, standing in front of Helga squarely, who was still distracted with looking for something edible, before noticing his stance.

"Well, I think what makes a bride beautiful is marrying the love of her life." Helga replied.

Arnold rolled his eyes and reached into his own freebie bag. "These cards are so corny." he said, pulling out a business card shaped like a bridal gown.

"Yours was better than mine." Helga replied, throwing hers over her shoulder. "I'm gonna go butter up that bride-"

"An interesting visual."

"-and _you_ , should go snag us some free cake from that table over there." Helga suggested, already eyeing up a yellow frosted slice of cake.

Instead of a table of free food, Arnold saw the myriad of women standing around, and wasn't looking forward to adding to his collection of phone numbers that filled his pocket. "Fine."

Helga smiled widely and turned to the dressing rooms. The opulently curtained-off portion of the convention center was filled with women trying on gowns, talking animatedly or yelling at one another or their friends. Helga was none too excited about the prospect of trying to make nice with a bunch of women, just so Arnold could get a phone number and possibly marry some stranger. It wasn't the first time she'd contemplated telling Arnold to count her out of his "Bride Hunt', even though the idea was initially hers. When she told Phoebe where she and Arnold would be spending their Saturday afternoon, her friend gave her the very expected, "Are You Really The Person Who Should Be Trying to Get Arnold Married?" look, which she swiftly ignored, in favor of a plate of recently baked cookies.

It was too late to recount on her promise to Arnold, and in Phoebe and Gerald's kitchen, it had been all to easy to imagine Arnold as the protagonist in an unlikely pair brought together by little else than a need for citizenship and a few (or more) well placed lies. It was a lot harder to imagine once she was faced with the thought of what that _meant_. Arnold would be married. To someone else. To someone that wasn't her.

She'd come to grips with their friendship, as odd as it was, in the past month that he'd been back. His presence sometimes unnerved her, but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. Another variable, however, might be just out of her wheelhouse.

"I'm sorry, may I help you?"

Helga hadn't realized she stopped in front of a vendor's table, and ignored the extravagant sign above her head. The table was piled neatly with brochures, booklets and photos of smiling couples. The women standing behind the table were all clad in black, with clean updos and not much makeup. 'Looks like they're going to a funeral instead of planning a wedding...' she thought.

"Oh, no. I was just...looking..." she said, trying to smile again, as the woman before her handed her a brochure for the event planning business. If the women behind the table looked severe, this one was Morticia Addams, in the flesh. Her hair was inky black and straight as a pin, and her pale face and hands as smooth as though she'd never smiled or curled a finger in her life. Helga thought she looked familiar, but couldn't place her.

Reading the front of the pamphlet, Helga's face dropped. How could she not recognize the walking black cloud in front of her? She barely registered that the woman was still speaking, as she could hear little else aside from her breathing. "...and we are located in Annapolis, right on the water, so if you're interested in more of a rustic wedding-"

"Oh, no..." Helga said, shaking her head. "No, I'm not engaged. I'm here with my...brother. Yes. _He's_ getting married, and, I'm just helping him find...a florist!" she said, desperately.

"Oh, well. What a lovely sister you are. Happy hunting." she said, barely smiling at all. Helga returned the smile, and turned to run, only to find Arnold standing behind her, both hands holding slices of cake.

"Hey Helga." he said, before she could put her hand over his mouth. She was certain her name would trigger the event planner's memory. "So, I got an almond vanilla cake, with raspberry filling and buttercream frosting, and a lemon mascarpone with a-"

"Miss Pataki?" asked the cold voice behind her.

Helga mouthed a few expletives as she put her hands on Arnold's shoulder's to turn him around. "That's great, let's go find you that florist!"

"Florist? Helga, you're-"

"Helga Pataki! How could I forget!" The woman said, her eyes lighting up. Helga could already hear her questioning Arnold as her brother, and allowed herself a brief moment of panic.

"Did that woman just say your nam-"

"No, I'm sorry, you have the wrong person!" Helga called over he shoulder, pushing Arnold through the shallow crowd, toward the door. They nudged more than a few angry guests on their way out, but Helga was relentless and Arnold wasn't complaining. 'Maybe four bridal fashion shows was four too many...' she thought as they made it to the lobby. The event planner didn't seem to be following her, so she stopped for a moment to breathe.

"What was that all about?" Arnold asked. He was still holding the two slices of cake, though both were now toppled and resembled puddles of frosting. "How did that woman know who you are?"

"Um...ya know, I think she planned a wedding I was bartending at a few months ago." Helga said, nodding excessively and nervously.

"She remembered you from a wedding?" Arnold asked, unconvinced. He deposited the slices of cake in a nearby trashcan, as they exited the convention center.

"You know how it is, Footballhead. You lend someone twenty bucks, and they forget you tomorrow, but cut someone off halfway through a wedding reception, and it's burned onto their brain."

"...okay."

"Look," Helga began, looking to her watch. "I have to be in Mt. Vernon by five, so I have to run. Um...did you have fun?" she asked weakly.

"It was a little weird. I don't know what I'm going to do with thirteen phone numbers." Arnold said, pulling scraps of paper and business cards from the pocket of his pants.

"Thirteen? I only introduced you to eight people." Helga said, keeping an eye out for the bus that would drive by the nearest corner.

"Apparently, helping your twin sister pick out her wedding cake scores a lot of points. And a lot of phone numbers." Arnold said, shrugging his shoulders.

Helga noticed his expression and spoke. "So, why the long face? You don't look like a guy who just got his pick of attractive women."

"I don't know." Arnold replied.

"Hey, you know a very common, American way to meet women?"

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Bars! Especially bars where your friend is the bartender." Helga suggested. If she was feeling apprehensive about finding him someone, she could only imagine how he was feeling. but, he wasn't objecting, and she wasn't going to on his behalf.

"I thought people mostly go to bars to hook up." he asked.

"They do. But won't they be pleasantly surprised when all you want is to find a nice girl to marry, and love, forever and ever, for all eternity, while also earning legal citizenship." she said, hoping her mood stayed light, even while talking non-chalantly about Arnold marrying another person and possibly meeting them in the very bar where she worked.

"That sounds a little dishonest." Arnold said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Love is dishonest, Arnold-o. Get used to it." she said, rolling her eyes. When he didn't reply, she tried softening her tone. "Look, just give it a try. I promise not to send you home with any girls who get drunk and dance on bars."

Arnold cracked his first genuine smile of the afternoon. "As opposed to girls who get drunk and go behind the bar?"

Helga narrowed her eyes, but couldn't fight the smile creeping on her face. "I wasn't that drunk." she whispered, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder and approaching the bus on the corner. "The bar is PaleWife. My shift starts at eight."

* * *

A/n: Ehhh. EHHHH. I am iffy about this chapter. I like a lot of things about it, but there's some things I'm not too crazy about. I hope some of the little details came through clearly.

The name of the bar is based off of one of my favorite Baltimore bars called 'AleWife' (I'm really original, eh?). It was one of the first outings with two amazing friends of mine, who have served as inspiration for Gerald and Phoebe as they are great parents, a ton of fun, and they kind of look like them. And their kids are adorable. I love them.

Let me know how you liked this, my loves!

-PointyO


	6. Shake and Strain

**Chapter Five: Shake and Strain**

 _'Shake and Strain'- When a bartender puts ice and ingredients into a shaker tin, shakes and strains it directly into a glass._

* * *

Helga slammed the heavy metal door behind her, and leaned on the brick wall of the alley and exhaled loudly and hooping she wasn't also leaning on anything that she couldn't clean off of her clothes. She was on the bar for barely an hour, and already wanted to go home. She rarely hated her job, but she often hated the other people she had to work with. On the one hand, of the two bars that occupied most of her time (and paid the majority of her expenses) PaleWife was the more entertaining bar, with a wider variety of craft beers and foods, and a lax Employee Dress Code. Their regulars were nicer and more generous with tips. But the bar in the Baltimore Standard Hotel was for a higher-class clientele, and while she made more money there, she couldn't see herself working full time. There wasn't even a decent alley to hide in when she was asked to replace the toilet paper in the bathrooms. Again.

"Hey, Helga…" she heard from the mouth of the alley.

 _"I'm on my smoke break…_ " she said, lazily.

"I didn't know you smoke…" Arnold said, walking towards her. The alley was somewhat secluded and dark, but enough light from nearby streetlamps made the place feel a little safer. And she was so angry, not even Arnold could rattle her nerves.

"I don't. But my coworkers do, and they get to come out here for ten minutes every hour to ruin their teeth with cigarettes, so I'm taking fifteen minutes, so I don't go in there and ruin their teeth with Ol' Betsy."

"Was Ol' Betsy the left or right? fist?" Arnold joked.

"If you have to ask, you've never met them."

"You got me there. You never did beat me up. You just threatened me a lot."

"I couldn't beat you up. You were just a little boy." Helga said, patting his shoulder. "Besides, I had people I actually hated that I had to beat up."

"You never really hated me, did you?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

Helga bit her lip as silence enveloped the semi-dark alley. She could hear customers exiting and entering the bar from around the corner. Helga was growing used to being mostly alone with Arnold, but this was the first time they were truly alone.

"I was thinking about what you said the other night. About…finding someone."

Helga hoped her intake of breath wasn't audible. She'd been frustrated with herself for suggesting that Arnold get married to a stranger in the first place, and she was fighting being angry at him now for actually listening to her.

"You have?" she asked.

"Yeah. And I think I want to take you up on your offer."

Helga steeled her features and smiled, even though she wasn't sure Arnold could see it in the dim lighting of the side street. "Awesome."

"Really?" he asked. 'Awesome' was hardly the response he was anticipating.

"Yeah." Helga said, wiping her forehead, feeling the sweat coming on. "Um, I think that I can definitely help with that."

"Yeah? Thanks, that's...great."

" _Yup_." Helga quipped. She knew she was being short with Arnold, and he didn't deserve it, but her nerves were frayed from work (all forms of it) and she was feeling more than peeved.

Arnold furrowed his brow. "I gotta admit...this is not the reaction I was expecting."

"I told you I was happy to help. I'll work on throwing you a party later..." she said, sounding less sarcastic than planned.

"Are you mad at me?" Arnold asked, concerned.

Helga exhaled loudly. Of course she wasn't mad at Arnold. She was mad that the servers refused to put in batch orders, and instead trickled in fourteen cocktails in the span of three minutes. She was mad that Miriam was calling more than usual, which usually only meant one thing. She was mad that she cut an afternoon with Arnold short (albeit, she was trying to help him find a significant other), just to bomb an audition. And now, instead of playing off her entire offer as a joke, as planned, she was agreeing to even more of it. All she needed to complete the night was a zombie apocalypse or seven of Egypt's ten plagues. Looking up at the sky, she had to admit, it was a lovely night for locusts.

"No, I've just had a horrible day. Not your fault, obviously, but I'm taking it out on you. Sorry."

"The Bridal Convention was that bad? I mean, I know the chairs were uncomfortable, but-"

"Strangely enough, that was the best part of my day." Helga said, laughing. "I had an audition this afternoon. That's why I left kind of quickly after the Expo."

"An audition?" he asked. He heard Helga singing a few days ago while making drinks in Phoebe and Gerald's kitchen. The result was palatable, but not great. He felt bad for the thought, at first, but tried to sound empathetic.

"I...I dance. Just on the side. Because I couldn't dare part with the lucrative bar industry..." she said, gesturing to the building behind her.

Arnold tried to hide the shock on his face, and hoped the darkness of the alley was helping. Gerald and Phoebe hinted at Helga's unorthodox and various jobs, but never alluded to her having such...colorful employment. Literally.

"That's so...well...how did it go?" he asked.

"It was fine, I just let my nerves get to me."

Arnold nodded, not quite knowing what to say. "I guess it's better money than working at a bar..."

Helga huffed. "You'd be surprised. I usually have to replace my shoes every few weeks. Then there's driving to auditions, costumes, tights-"

"I didn't know you had to have different...costumes..." Arnold said, nervously.

"Well, it depends on the production, really. Every casting director is different, and then the choreographer usually has a vision, an no one can change his mind...it's more of a headache than it's worth.

"Oh, I...I didn't..I thought that...not that there's anything wrong with..."

Helga raised an eyebrow at his stammering, before realizing what he thought. "Oh good grief, Arnold! What kind of dancing do you think I do?!" she asked, smacking his arm with the back of her hand.

Arnold raised his hands as though the barrel of a gun were looking at him, as opposed to his friend. "I'm sorry, I just-you said you danced, and for money-"

"Well, to make this clear, while I do not question the career choices of others, I am not, nor do I ever plan on being, an _exotic_ dancer." Helga remarked, resolutely. Clearing her throat, under her breath, she said, "Unless you count burlesque..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." she said, smiling widely.

"I didn't know you could dance..."

"According to a particularly surly casting director, I can't." Helga replied, defeated. "Enough about me. I would...be happy to help. Or keep helping."

"I feel like its too much to ask. You don't have to."

Helga looked to Arnold next to her. She was finding it harder and harder to deny him, much as she wanted to. She had no delusions of their friendship; even if she didn't help him, at best he'd find some other way to stay in the States, and she would have to keep whatever confusing feelings that were brewing to herself, as their circle of friends would no doubt remain close. Her only other option was to help him, and sit idly by as he married some stranger. She'd infiltrate their group of friends. She'd bake brownies when Phoebe got sick and even root for the same teams as Gerald, even if they're having a genuinely terrible season. She and Arnold would churn out a hundred kids and she'd be the godmother to every single one of them.

"Of course I'm going to help you, Arnold. You're my friend." she said, more for herself than for him. "So, how do you want to do this?"

Arnold was caught off guard. Helga was usually the one with all the answers. "I'm not sure, I thought maybe you would have some idea. I don't even know where to start."

"Well, probably somewhere big, ya know? With a lot of traffic."

"Traffic?"

"Yeah, like one of those sites they advertise for on T.V. They have a dating site for everything now. Farmers, football fans, you name it." Helga said, her voice taking on a playful cadence.

Upon the word 'site', Arnold realized, for the second time that night, that he and Helga were suffering from a lapse in communication. "Actually-"

"We're gonna have to craft your profile very carefully..."

"Helga, listen-"

"Do you have any photos of you saving, like, a baby tiger, or something? Ladies love a guy who saves baby animals."

"I don't think you understand. I don't want to any photos or baby animals or any of that."

Helga paused. "...do you want me to set you up on one of those...fetish sites? Like, where you see pictures of people's feet instead of their faces?"

"What?! That's not what I meant."

"Because you're going to have to write your own profile for that..." Helga said, guarded.

"No! No _fetish_ sites, no dating sites, none of that. I don't want to have to marry some stranger."

"What about the phone numbers?" Helga asked.

"It didn't feel right. I couldn't do it." he said, sadly.

"Well, unless you're planning on digging through some boxes to find you or your parents' birth certificates, we're kind of out of options." Helga said, beginning to pace the short width of the alley. She had already exceeded even the longest of her coworker's smoke breaks, but cared little. "You don't want to marry anyone I helped you meet, you don't want to meet anyone new. So who do you _want_ to marry, Arnold?"

Arnold steadily released a breath of air, and shoved his hands in in his pockets. Dipping his chin, he looked at Helga, sheepishly.

"Oh... _oh_." Helga said, the sound of blood pumping in her ears deafening her slightly. "Hey..." she began, her voice shaking. "I was...I was just joking around. You don't have to...marry me. We'll find you someone." she promised.

"I don't know if I just want 'someone'." Arnold said, standing across from her.

In her head, Helga was screaming.

This was _not_ part of the plan. The plan was quite literally the plot of a cheesy romantic comedy that usually only comes on in the middle of the afternoon on public cable channels. The plan, in only her wildest dreams, had her at the center. If anything, she expected to have to say goodbye to Arnold before she said 'I do', only because she thought he would find the notion of marrying her as comical as she did.

Her silence was unnerving him, but he spoke anyway. "You're one of my best friends. I know it's been weird since I've been back, but I mean it. You're my friend, and I do _like_ you. I just...can't see myself conning someone into something so serious. Not that I'd be conning you, I just-"

" _Hey!_ "

Helga and Arnold both turned toward the booming voice and the clan of metal hitting brick as the back door of the bar opened suddenly. A thin man with gelled hair and an arm of tattoos, stood in front of them, looking angrily between Arnold and Helga.

"We're thirty orders behind!"

"Gimme a minute, Joe!" Helga said back. She didn't shout, as Arnold expected, but kept her voice low and serious. The man at the door was probably privy to that tone more than once and huffed loudly before departing.

"I have to..,get back in there." Helga said, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"Helga, I'm-"

"It's fine. I get it." she said, out of breath for no reason aside from the pounding in her chest. "My shift ends kind of late tonight, but if you want to stick around, we can talk after, or something. Or tomorrow." Helga knew that if her nerves were tight, a night of pretending to be interested in some intern's startup idea or pretending not to listen to a gaggle of sorority sisters complain about their children's teacher who refuses to give little Blakely a Participation Award for doing his homework, would effectively loosen them. At the same time, she was sure she'd need a little more than loose nerves to make it through this particular conversation.

"Tomorrow is fine." Arnold said, quietly. Let's get lunch tomorrow." He said, walking toward her with his hand extended. Helga looked at the hand as if it'd grown a third head.

"You…just asked me to marry you…"

"Sort of, yes. Not in so many words, but…"

"And you wanna…shake hands?: Helga asked, raising an eyebrow. She couldn't he;p but smile a little. Arnold mistaking her side job for stripping, her co-worker yelling at them in a narrow alley, and the very tiny matter of him proposing. That could not be ignored.

Arnold looked down at his head and chuckled. "I guess I am…" he said, retracting his hand.

"So, lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Lunch. See you tomorrow, Helga."

* * *

A/N: Not how I initially intended to end this chapter, but, you do what you have to. I update a story every November 15th. If you've read enough of my fanfiction, you might already know why. Anyway, let me know what you think. The story is starting to take shape, but i have a few twists left up my sleeves. Stay tuned.

-Pointy_Objects


	7. Grande Jeté

**Chapter Six:** **Grande Jeté**

Grande Jete \- ( _grand jeh tay_ ) - a leap from one foot to the other in which the working leg is brushed into the air and appears to have been thrown. A large jump, requiring finesse and poise.

* * *

"I'm worried."

"Don't be. We'll get the brie home in time." Gerald said, shifting his son's weight on his shoulder and chest. Carrying a sleeping Levi up Eutaw Street was easier than pushing the stroller, which was currently filled with groceries. If they didn't have too much to shop for, sometimes, Levi would ride in a carrier with the food, but after an unfortunate incident involving a carton of coconut milk and a passing truck, it was decided that Levi could not be trusted with the groceries just yet.

"I'm not worried about the brie, Gerald. It's Helga." Phoebe said.

"Why are you worried about her? Is it her mom again?" he asked, concerned.

"No. It's just her…and Arnold..."

"You're going to have to be a lot more specific, hon."

"They've been spending a lot of time together, lately."

"And that's a problem? I thought that's why we told he should Arnold move back here."

Phoebe exhaled loudly, a quick movement of her arm bringing her hand to her right ear. To passersby, more than usual for a Sunday afternoon, she looked to be adjusting an earring or swatting away a pesky insect. To her husband, however, it was an alarm.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?" Phoebe responded, defensively.

"You're scratching your ear. Come on, spill." Gerald prompted.

"I just…I know Helga, and I know how she is when it comes to Arnold."

"Honey, we were _kids_ and they haven't seen each other in years. And even if there is something going on, don't you think you'd be the first person she'd tell?"

Approaching their apartment complex, Phoebe rolled her eyes. She really had no reason to distrust her friend or her motivations for helping Arnold, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that told her a reunion between the friends might not have been the best idea. Far from fragile, Helga still had some healing to do, especially from the past year, and while Arnold was s better alternative to some of Helga's other 'healing' methods, she wasn't sure if he was the best.

"Just don't sweat it." Gerald said, simply. Spotting the familiar postal worker van parked at the street corner, Gerald prepared to trade the weight of his young son for the stroller full of groceries. "Here, take lil' man upstairs, I'll pick up the mail."

Phoebe made sure Levi was still asleep, and while she offered far less physique than her husband for him to lean on, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had the wider mother's hips, and balancing him on one of them, she entered the building code into the electronic keypad and entered the apartment building. The lobby of the building was all hardwood flooring and long windows, with a few random scattering of chairs and coffee tables, no doubt left over from evicted neighbors. Rounding the corner to the elevators, Phoebe saw that the elevator was just closing, with only one passenger aboard.

"Hold!" she shouted, not caring that her exclamation would probably awake her son. Fortunately for her, the person inside the elevator inserted their hand between the closing doors, bringing them apart again. "Thank you." she breathed, entering the small space of the elevator and waiting for the doors to close again. In response, she received a tight smile from the other occupant; a woman, about her age, with strawberry blonde hair and several layer of crocheted and beaded clothing. Phoebe, as a resident of the city, had seen her fair share of eccentric types, and was unfazed by the woman's appearance. She could feel, however the searing stare of the woman next to her. As long as she lived, she would never get used to it.

"I'm sorry, I hope you don't think I'm rude for asking, but...what agency do you work with?" the woman asked, tilting her head slightly, and speaking a little too loudly for Phoebe's taste.

"Agency?" she asked, holding Levi a little closer.

"Yes, of course." the woman answered, as if stating the obvious. "You're his...au pair, right? My sister has been looking for eons, but hasn't found anyone reliable."

Phoebe's eyes widened as she bit the inside of her lip to keep from lashing out angrily. She found herself going over fencing movements from her youth; not in her normal fashion, as a calming technique, but because she might have to use them on this woman, while holding her toddler son. Instead, se steeled her voice, and answered, "He's my _son_."

The woman seemed unembarrassed by her assumption and continued speaking, much to Phoebe's chagrin.

"Oh. Well, that's nice. He just looks so... _unlike_ you."

The remainder of the ride continued without another word spoken, but Phoebe was already resolved to carve an hour or two for herself in the apartment building's exercise room. Specifically the punching bag.

* * *

The waitress approached the table carefully, balancing a tray, heavy with food, near her shoulder as she walked. She did not take their orders; on for her co-waitresses did, but was currently on her lunch break and asked for help covering her section. Placing the tray on a nearby empty table, she began dispensing the dishes.

"Alrighty, then," she began, smiling widely, hoping the tip for a slow Sunday afternoon would balance the threat of no further customers for the evening. "I've got a lovely chicken cobb salad for the lady-"

"No. Nope. That's his," the blonde said, simply, pointing at her equally blonde table mate.

"Oh, I'm sorry." the waitress chimed, placing the plate, "Then I suppose these are...yours." she began, staring down at the tray of greasy foods left before her.

"Thanks." the blonde said, moving the food around her plate with purpose.

As the waitress walked away, she heard the girl explain, on what could only be described as the weirdest date she'd eve seen, what a 'frickle' was.

* * *

"It's a _fried pickle_ , Footballhead! What's there to explain?" Helga said, exhausted.

"Why would anyone fry a pickle?" he asked, over his own significantly less altered food.

Helga huffed. "If you don't want one just say so." she said, biting loudly into a batter covered spear.

"So...", Arnold began, half-hazardly moving his salad around his plate. "..about last night-"

"Not before I finish my frickles, Arnold." Helga interrupted.

"I thought that's why we came here…to talk."

"Of course we did. But we also came here to eat. And eating always trumps talking."

"Fine." Arnolsd responded, now stabbing his salad.

"Hey, don't get huffy with me." Helga warned.

"Well, this is pretty important to me. Pardon my huffiness."

"Fine, Arnold-O, you wanna talk. Let's talk: We spend most of yesterday pretending to be siblings, so we can find you a nice girl to take…to marry. And by sundown, you have it in your head that you want to skip the whole 'nice girl' part, and just marry the craziest person you know."

"That's not how I see it."

"How do you see it? Because this is looking a little too 'cheesy romantic comedy' for me…"

"You're my friend. You know me, and I know you, I think. This whole idea is crazy and probably won't work, but if it doesn't-"

"If it doesn't, you have to go back to the country of your birth. You're banned from entering the United States, and I'm imprisoned and fined up the whazoo for the rest of my life." Helga said seriously.

"I see you found the same information I did. Does that change your mind at all?"

"I'd be lying if I told you it didn't scare me a little."

"This is a terrible idea, isn't it?"

"Not entirely. I mean it's definitely whacky. The Prodigal Son of Hillwood comes back home and marries the sad, disillusioned townie. Soap opera material if I ever heard it, but not unbelievable."

"Well when you put it like that…" Arnold said, looking off again.

"And, let's just kick the elephant in the room right in the head-"

"I don't think that's a real expression."

"-when we were kids, I liked you. That's no huge surprise."

"I guess not."

"We could just spin that to say we liked _each other_. Then it becomes a sort of…'schoolyard crush turns into the love of the century' type deal." Helga found herself meeting Arnold's gaze at the mention of the word 'love' and realized her mistake. "Sorry, that came out weird. We don't have to…love each other."

"How can you say that?"

"My parents were married for almost 40 years, Arnold. Do you wanna know how many genuine, real-as-corn moments of affection I saw between them? Not a lot. You can be plenty married, and not in love. _Trust me_."

"It sounds like you're speaking more from your own experiences…"

Helga paused, biting her lip. "There was a guy…he was perfectly nice. I just…it wasn't there, ya know?"

"Sorry to hear that."

Helga shrugged. "It happens."

The two were pleasantly silent, the clattering of f few plates and shuffling from the other patrons of the restaurant, scant and scattered as hey were, the only sounds above their own.

"I was thinking we could ask Phoebe and Gerald for pointers. Since they're experienced with this and everything." Arnold suggested. He knew their two friends would make powerful allies. They were friends since childhood, and any lie he and Helga concocted could be supported by the testimony of their two closest friends.

"Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a lot harder than just knowing the basics…" Helga said, skeptically. She wondered briefly how she would have anaged talking some poor sap Arnold met at a Bridal Show that this could work, when she wasn't entirely convinced herself.

"It probably will be. But in the meantime, what are the basics? I mean, what's your favorite color?"

"Green. You?"

"Blue. Why green?"

"Because it's the color of my love's eyes…" Helga drawled, dramatically. When she noticed Arnold's disquiet, she rolled her eyes. "I'm joking, Arnold. No, I just liked climbing trees when we were kids. There was this one tree in Tina Park, that was high enough to see the whole park. I'd stay up there for hours."

"That sounded really genuine."

"Well, it was. And I'm also a fabulous liar, as you already know." Helga quipped, having finished her food and now flicking stray pieces of lettuce from her burger around her plate. "Alright, tough question time. Name of your last ex."

"You said 'tough question', not 'uncomfortable question'." Arnold began, squirming a bit in his chair.

Helga crumpled her paper napkin and abandoned it on the table. They'd paid earlier, upon ordering, and Helga left a tip under her glass, and followed Arnold out of the restaurant. She hoped he was avoiding the question because he couldn't remember his ex's name, not because he had so many he couldn't remember them all.

"They're our exes for a reason, Hairboy. Unless you got dumped. In which case…sorry you got dumped."

"I didn't get _dumped_. We were just headed in different directions."

"And her name was…" she prodded.

"Bianca. You?"

"Marc. With a "C", not a "K". He hated that."

"He sounds… _particular_." Arnold offered after a moment. He didn't know the man Helga formerly dated, but definitely didn't picture her with a guy who was a stickler for how people spelled his name.

"Among other things." Helga began swinging her arms as the walked, if for no other reason than to distract herself.

Arnold on the other hand was starting to rethink the arrangement himself. "There's still time to back out."

"Don't tempt me. This idea is absolutely crazy."

"I thought you were the one telling me a minute ago that this could work."

"It can. I just think we're severely underestimating the powers that be. You don't think someone will figure out that this is some elaborate hoax?"

"We'll just have to cover all our bases then."

"I don't think I'm that good of a liar, Arnold."

Helga watched as Arnold stepped in front of her again, in much the same way that he did on the evening when they met again after a year. While she was feeling far less afraid of him than on that night, his closeness still threw her mind into a scramble.

"I beg to differ. I think you are." he said, clearly a challenge.

"Well, I did convince you I wasn't in love with you for nine years." she retorted.

"Any stipulations regarding our…engagement?"

Helga took a deep breath. 'Time to get serious.' she thought. "Yes. Two, actually."

"I have to warn you, I have almost no money to my name."

Helga laughed loudly. "Neither do I." she said, between guffaws. "That doesn't matter to me. First things first. The proposal."

"I already proposed."he said, almost defensively. It took him hours to figure out if he wasn't losing his mind the first time he asked, and now Helga wanted him to do it again?

Helga raised her eyebrows. " _Arnold_. You proposed in an alley. Behind my job. My job at a bar. The only think that made that remotely romantic, was that it was at _night_."

He nodded. "Point taken."

"I don't need anything fancy or elaborate. No hot air balloons or fireworks. But, if Gerald and Phoebe's engagement is any indication, this is a story you will be quizzed on and that I will have to recite for the rest of our lives. Trust me."

"You keep saying that. 'Trust me'. I get the feeling you've done this before."

Helga crossed the street nervously. They were barely a block away from her apartment, on a quiet little street near Mt. Vernon. "Um, well…I was Phoebe's maid of honor, so…I know how some of these things work. Sort of." "The second one is a little harder."

"Harder than re-proposing?"

Helga stood up straight and looked Arnold in the eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his hands on her shoulders. They both anchored and inflated her. "It's about my mom."

Arnold had never known Helga's relationship with her mother to be anything but strained.

"She's never met anyone I've…been involved with. If a guy was special, he knew about her, but never the other way around. I'm asking for you to meet her today, or anything, but every few weeks, I just…go have lunch with her and stuff. I don't know. Eventually, she'd know about you and…I don't know. We'd have to act with her too. Which means you'd have to...meet her." she said, avoiding eye contact and wringing her hands, nervously. "If you want."

"Of course I would, Helga." Arnold said, and for once, Helga was secretly glad he didn't elaborate. Her most awkward request was finally mentioned, and she could finally exhale. Her stance remained mostly unchanged, as Arnold still gripped her shoulders softly.

"Great. Thanks." she continued, waiting for his hands to fall. "Are you gonna..." she started, wiggling her shoulders a little.

"We have to get more comfortable with physical contact, Helga. If you're in-" Arnold stated simply.

Helga made a pained noise and almost shook her head, before the front door of er apartment building was thrown open. Standing as close as they were, they jumped away, and without thinking, Helga stepped closer to Arnold, finding her arms at his back, as if a wild animal were pouncing out instead of a tiny dark-haired woman carrying a sack of laundry. Helga pried herself from Arnold, and tried not to look so guilty as she addressed her neighbor.

"Magandang hapon, po, Ate Mari." Helga said quickly and out of breath. She saw from the corner of her eye that Arnold practically did a double take as she began to speak. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine..." she answered, in a high-pitched voice. Arnold was astounded and scared, mostly that Helga and this woman seemed to share a language that he couldn't make heads or tails of (he assumed her first words were a greeting of some kind), and that the woman in question was currently smiling at him a little too widely. They continued conversing, Helga adding a few indistinct words into her phrases, while the woman's (Mari by the name Helga called her) dotted her rapid speech with little to no English. She was the definition of 'tiny'; barely reaching Arnold's chest, but her impact was significant.

"At sino ito?" Ate Mari asked, raising her eyebrows quickly. Arnold assumed she was referring to him in some way.

Helga on the other hand, latched onto Arnold's arm, apologizing without words. "Uhh..." she began, searching for the right words in any language to explain their relationship. Unfortunately, her impromptu language lessons with Mari somehow didn't make it to the curriculum regarding such phrases as "childhood obsession", "citizenship fraud" and "marrying to avoid deportation". Helga smiled as convincingly as she knew how and answered. "Siya ay...ay..."

She struggled for her word, knowing he neighbor expected one thing (she _did_ catch them embracing on the front step of her apartment) and that Arnold, as compliant as he was being, might have been expecting another. She steeled herself for the worst, and exhaled.

"Siya ay...nobiyo ko." she answered, snaking her arm around Arnold.

The response was, to say the least, overwhelming.

They were bot enveloped in a wide, and surprisingly firm, hug, kissed on both cheeks, and peppered with what was undoubtedly unsolicited advice. Helga smiled and nodded accordingly, and Arnold followed suit. Mari eventually left the stoop, waving and laughing enthusiastically as she walked down the street toward the closest laundromat. When she was out of eyesight, Helga turned back to Arnold, smiling nervously.

"Care to explain?" he asked, looking exhausted.

"That was Ate Mari." Helga responded. "she and her husband own the building.

"Okay. And you were speaking..."

"Tagalog."

"You know Tagalog?" Arnold asked skeptically.

Helga shrugged. "A little. My accent is pretty rough."

"I can tell." he said, stepping back. "And what exactly were you two chatting about?"

Helga looked around and started wringing her hands again. "Well, she asked about the water pressure in my bathroom, and I told her it was fine, and then she said she had a nephew who could come and look at it, and then she said that he's still single, and if Iw anted t learn how to make really good sapin-sapin, she could tell him I was single and then..."

"...and then?"

Helga squared her shoulders. " I'm in."

Arnold stood up as well. "What?"

"You were asking earlier, if I was sure."

"Are you?"

"I just told my landlord that you're my fiance. So, yeah...I guess I'm in."

* * *

A/N: Greetings, my lovelies. A few things:

A) I am currently learning Tagalog, a language I love so much. If any of you guys are native speakers, feel free to correct my grammar/spelling/anything really. My husband speaks the language so much better than I do. He's got some of that Spanish blood in him, so it comes easy. And Ate (pronounced "Ah-Thay") Mari is based on an amalgam of tiny Filipino ladies that I've met both in the Philippines and here in the States. They are wonderful; they mention my growing weight at every turn, but never allow me to eat less than three plates at a party. Amazing people.

B) The incident where the waitress thought Helga go the salad and Arnold got all the greasy food actually happened to me and my husband a few months ago. He's a big guy, and was really upset that the server assumed the friend pickles (SO GOOD), greasy hamburger and mozzarella sticks were for him and not his considerably smaller wife. We laugh about it now. He actually eats more salads than I do. Never assume!

C) I think I said this in an earlier author's note, but this story is not strictly romance. I can't do that. In addition to comedic highjinnk, there will be some pressing social issues discussed, as seen in Phoebe's interaction in this chapter. As half of an interracial couple I can tell you, this happens a lot. I think this is something Phoebe and Gerald would handle with grace, but would also wear on their nerves. Adding elements like that makes the story real to me.

Hope you guys liked this chapter! Drop me a review and stay tuned.

-PointyO


	8. Bitters

**Chapter Seven:** **Bitters**

 _Bitters **-** An aromatic botanical or herbal infusion used to add flavor to cocktails and mixed drinks._

* * *

In one hand, the woman before him held a still a bright yellow lemon against a wooden cutting board. In the other, a knife, that could probably serve as a weapon as easily as it slid through the skin of the fruit. Before her was an assortment of herbs, fruits, alcohols and a seemingly out of place decorative box of matches. Her work area, with its variety of ingredients and tools stayed organized, and drew the attention of a few other patrons seated along the immaculate expanse of the bar top. The lemon, now having been cored, peeled and de-seeded, sat alone on the cutting board like an abandoned toy. She never groped for a new item or ingredient; everything had it's designated place, and as a result, instead of searching the bar top frantically for an item, she would twirl her sharpened balde in one hand, and use the other to administer the ingredient.

With a flick of the wrist (that was distinctly Helga), and the grace of a ballerina (that just happened to be Helga, but probably wasn't anyone's first guess), she dropped a delicately twisted slice of lemon rind in to the glass and slid the drink across the bar top to a heavily bejeweled woman with an expensive-looking fur stole over one shoulder, and a mass of thick, black hair over the other. She smiled in thanks at Helga, and floated away from the bar, drink in hand. Helga dipped her hand at the indiscreet cash folded on the bar top, confiscated it and began cleaning her immediate area, quietly. It was, in fact the quietest Arnold had ever seen Helga.

"What was that?" he asked incredulously.

"What was what?" Helga asked, not looking up.

"What you just did. How do you do that?" he asked, keeping his tone low. Unlike the other establishment where Helga worked, no one spoke loudly, the music stayed at a low and calming pace; the kind of music (as described by Helga) that was slow enough to keep you relaxed over dinner, but upbeat enough to make you want to buy another drink.

"It's just a trick I learned. I could teach you." she offered. She resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her conservative, though very short, skirt, remembering which establishment she was in, and opted for a spotless towel hanging low behind the bar table. Because the Red Line Bar and Lounge catered to a more sophisticated client, Helga was forced to don a white buttoned down shirt, a black skirt and solid-colored, non-athletic shoes. There was very little wiggle room in the dress code. Just the year prior, the women of the bar nearly walked out if they weren't allowed to wear pants in inclement weather. Management budged as little as possible, but a win was a win.

"What time do you get out of here?" Arnold asked. The two were headed off to another dinner at Phoebe and Gerald's, this time with a mission in mind, and hopefully no surprises. As a couple who were practically 'married' long before they said 'I Do", and as their closest friends, Arnold could hardly think of anyone he'd go to to see how a real couple functioned. He and Helga spoke very little of their romantic entanglements, but from what he could see, she either dated very seldom or not for very long. His first foray into what seemed to him like innocent physical contact, nearly scared her senseless, and since then she was very weary of him. He could see her watching his hands, like a viper about to strike. If he handed her his glass to refill, she'd purposely grasp as little of it as she could; and if, by some chance, their hands did meet, she'd pull back suddenly, as if burned and spend the next few minutes wringing her hands, nervously. At first, it wounded him; he was all too familiar with rejection as of late, but not from Helga, who he deemed at least a close friend. Eventually, he just chalked it up to her being anxious about physical contact with any person, not just him. Their relationship had only been that close on one occasion, and abruptly changed after that. He tried to keep the bitter thought that the blunt ending to that meeting was also her doing.

"Right about-"

"Helga? Can we see you in the office for a moment?" A wiry thin woman with faded brown hair and thin reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She looked very unlike the kind of woman who would manage such a bar, but the command with which she spoke to Helga, and the barely perceptible sigh that Helga rewarded her with, said otherwise. She mumbled an apologetic "Be right back" before following the woman behind the bar and a metal swinging door at the end of the bar.

Arnold passed his glass from hand to hand across the bar top, a scant amount of beer left. Friendship with Helga did not seem to be influencing his preferences regarding alcohol. She was regularly suggesting different kind of beers to him: ales, stouts, IPAs, lagers, none of which he was excited to try. Her mixed drinks were a little more interesting, especially when she was experimenting with new flavors and ingredients. She never seemed to use a recipe, and on the rare occasions when she did, it was bound to have something added or taken away, to become a beverage of her own making. Arnold was beginning to feel like he could never genuinely surprise her; she was always a step or two ahead of everyone else.

If anything, his proposal the other night was solid proof of that. He was perplexed by her lack of excitement, and almost affronted when she took nearly a day to give him an answer (if telling her landlord in a foreign language that they were engaged is any indication of accepting his offer). Those feelings were quickly snuffed out; he had to remind himself of the situation he was putting Helga in, even if she insisted that it wasn't a big deal to her. After over a year of no contact with him, he showed up in their hometown again, rejoined their small circle of friends seamlessly, asked for her help in a ridiculous and illegal mission for citizenship and in the end, rebuffed her help, and just asked her to marry him instead. Even he was having trouble not rolling his eyes at the situation.

Hopefully their visit with Gerald and Phoebe would make this transition (if that's what this could be called) somewhat easier. Arnold was all too aware of what their relationship was at present, and what it needed to be to pass off as genuine. The two were friends, but they hardly knew each other. At times, Helga was open and unguarded. Her friendship with Phoebe was transparent as could be; it was clear there was little the two didn't share with one another. Her opinions were written on her face, and often offered without asking. In other ways, however, she was Fort Knox. She spoke rarely of her mother, aside from mentioning when she would visit her, and even then, no details were offered. She spoke only of one previous relationship, and in no great detail, except that it was not serious on her end, and it ended amicably. Navigating her mind was akin to being lost in a maze, with one path and a hundred dead ends.

Helga emerged from the back of the bar, turned to shake hands with the tall figure who summoned her back there, and maneuvered her coat over her shoulders as she walked toward him. She also carried two bags; a stately–looking paper shopping bag and one that inevitably held a change of clothes. Arnold hopped out of his chair to help her with her sleeve and opened the door was they left.

"What was that all about?" he asked, pulling his own coat closer to his body. The walk from Helga's job was considerable, and even though she knew more than one shortcut, it would only feel longer in this weather.

"Nothing, really. My boss just wanted to talk about my career and stuff…" she said, removing her hand from her pocket to wave her hand, dismissively.

"They were probably impressed by that lemon corkscrew…" he said, smiling.

"Will you get over the lemon corkscrew? It sounds like a football play…" Helga started. "Hey, that's a good question! What's your favorite football team?" she asked, For the past week, Helga had been trying to come up with questions the two could ask each other, that might add weight to their claim as a couple.

"Do you mean football or futbol?" Arnold asked.

"Oh geez, don't be one of those people. You know what I mean." She said, jerking her head to the side in the direction of M&T Bank Stadium.

"I guess I don't have one." He answered.

Helga extracted her hands again to scratch her head. "We'll have to make one up. It can't be the home team. Too obvious. Plus, they're having a terrible season. I'll ask Gerald what he thinks."

While she was speaking, Arnold very discreetly moved his elbow out and away from his body, creating a space between the crook of his arm and body. The movement of his arm briefly caught Helga's attention, and he was not deterred when she exhaled a visible puff of air in response.

"We're going to have to get used to this eventually…" Arnold began.

Helga directed her attention across the street.

"It's just my arm. Is my arm that repulsive?"

""No."

"Then what's your problem?"

"It's not you. I don't like…physical contact, okay?"

"That doesn't really help our case much." He said, stopping at the crosswalk in front of them. "You know, this area is known for pickpockets…" he remarked, barely above the roar of cars passing them.

Helga looked up from the sidewalk at Arnold, unconsciously narrowing her eyes at him. His remark brought back a singular memory that spanned no more than a minute or two, but in perfect clarity.

 _"You know, this area is known for pickpockets…"_

 _Arnold leaned in close, and had she not looked at him, she would have thought he was serious._

 _"Really?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. The sun had set long ago, but the streets were warm and busy. Parents called out of windows and doors to gather children, children ignored their cries and chased each other in and out of alleys and narrow blacks._

 _"Yes; it's extremely dangerous to have your bag so exposed."_

 _Helga rolled her eyes, and moved her small bag, used especially for traveling, as it was easily concealed under a coat, to the opposite hip. Moving her hair from under thee strap, she swiftly slid her hand between Arnold's forearm and body, pressing her right hip close to his left one._

 _"There," she said, looking between them. "Now any pickpockets will have to get between the two of us."_

 _Arnold returned her grin. "A novel idea."_

 _"Where are we going anyway?"_

 _"You'll see…"_

 _Helga grasped his arm a little tighter as he quickened his pace._

Helga was convinced her eyes would stay permanently glued to the sky, but rolled her eyes anyway, and solemnly took Arnold's arm, refusing to make eye contact.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he said. Helga could hear the smile in his voice. "Your hands are awfully cold…"

"What?!"

"I can feel it through my coat…"

"It's freezing out here!" Helga said, stating the obvious.

"I don't even see why you use ice to chill your drinks. You should just hold the glasses and have the same effect." He said, goading her.

Helga wanted to push him over the side of Federal Hill and watch him roll down directly into the Inner Harbor. On second thought, she and Arnold poking fun at one another was far more familiar territory than worrying about looking like a real couple. She still curled her lip when they gave way on the sidewalk to an older couple, who responded with a medley of coos and sentiments that conveyed that they, at least, thought they were a cute couple. The remainder of the walk was mostly silent; the Inner Harbor was alive with people that night, the cold weather deterring few families and friends from browsing the shops and finding somewhere to eat. Helga pointed out a pub where she got her start bartending and mentioned that they should get lunch there sometime. When Arnold questioned her on the name of the pub, TIR NA NÓG, she remarked that it was based on an Irish fairy tale that she barely remembered.

"I used to know it by heart, because customers would ask about it all the time. I don't remember much of it now; just that it ends really sadly." She said, dodging a line of children running from their parents.

Arnold watched them weave around them. "What do you think about kids?"

"Germ carrying monkeys." Helga said, simply. Arnold couldn't help but notice that her cadence was that of someone who'd answered the question too many times.

"You don't mean that…" Arnold said, quietly.

"Yes, I do. If you had a roommate who does half the things a baby does, you'd kick him out of your apartment. They're like tiny drunk people."

"Don't you think that's something we'd get asked? If we want kids?"

" _Of course_. I get asked that question all the time, and no one even knows I'm engaged." Helga said, attempting to put her hand back in her pockets, before realizing one of them was still hanging on to Arnold's arm. She was momentarily torn between being elated and scared out of her mind. Until Arnold arrived at the Standard to "escort" her to Phoebe and Gerald's apartment, she spent most of the evening deluding herself that their little arrangement would be beneficial for all parties involved, with no hurt feelings or residual damage. Helga no longer fought against the nine year old she used to be, who, in no uncertain terms, was completely obsessed with Arnold. Instead, Helga was now fighting with herself from a year prior, who never quite stopped asking herself what would have happened had she flown back home four days later, instead of that very night.

"I think we should say 'Yes'. If we get asked." Arnold said, confidently. Helga, however, did a terrible job of hiding her dislike for the idea. "Isn't that what normal people do? Get married and have kids?"

"I think we're established the fact that you and I are not at all _normal_. Besides, there are plenty of happy, successful people who get married and never have any kids."

Now it was Arnold's turn to roll his eyes. "Of course I know that. But, if an Immigration Officer asks if we want kids, it would probably help us out to at least say 'yes'."

Helga wouldn't tell Arnold but she was dreading the possibility of being quizzed about Arnold. The Arnold she knew was nine years old, lived with his grandparents, and was prone to daydreaming at odd times. The Arnold she had to get to know was far more complex, having spent years in one (or more) foreign countries in search of his parents and the culture they loved. She found it difficult to broach the subject; there was a cacophony of possibilities that eventually led him to return home, and none of them sounded like a happy ending. The conversation was one that would have to occur sooner or later, and Helga was hoping for the latter.

She shrugged her shoulders and tried to redirect the conversation, to little avail. The pair remained silent until arriving at Gerald and Phoebe's brick apartment building. Entering the tiny vestibule, Helga dialed the apartment number and waited for the noisy static to be replaced by Gerald's voice.

"Hello?"

Arnold began speaking, before Helga interrupted him. "Let us up, you turkey! It's freezing out here!"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't hear the magic word…"

Arnold pressed the 'Call" button and answered. "We have wine."

The door to the right of them buzzed and then clicked open. Helga nodded at Arnold's ingenuity and walked through the door he held open for her. Around the corner was the empty lobby and elevator.

"Do you think we should tell them?" Helga asked, once in the elevator.

"Gerald and Phoebe? Of course." Arnold replied, as though stating the obvious.

The elevator began advancing them up towards the fifth floor, but Helga could feel her stomach sinking.

"Why wouldn't you want to tell them?"

"Phoebe is one of the few people whose opinion means a lot to me." Helga said, trying to breathe steadily. Arnold's next move put all of those efforts to waste.

Instinctively, Helga's first reaction to the large hand wrapped around hers was to shake it loose and shoot the owner of said hand a look of contempt. When the person attached to that hand happened to be Arnold, the only other occupant of the elevator and her current faux-fiancé, the reaction was immediate, though less severe. In essence, she just stopped breathing altogether.

"Phoebe's your friend. She's not going to think any less of you. Trust me." He said, throwing her familiar moniker back at her.

Helga remained silent as the doors to the elevator opened, but released a breath in response. She hoped that Arnold holding her hand (which was growing sweatier by the minute) was meant as a brief, comforting gesture, and he would release her as Gerald and Phoebe's apartment door loomed closer. Resolving herself to being wrong for the remainder of the evening, she thought for a moment that maybe this would be how Arnold broke the news to their two friends. Just show up at their door, her hand in his, and let them piece it together themselves. Unlikely, but a far less harrowing scenario than what would probably occur.

Arnold knocked on the door to apartment 5F and waited, rocking on his heels. Helga almost smacked him with her free hand; there they were, about to reveal the scheme to end all schemes to their closest friends and he was acting like they were just going over for dinner and drinks. As the door handle began to turn, her right hand was abruptly released, and for an instant, she missed the warmth of his hand.

"Guys!"

Gerald whipped the door open, clad in a polka-dotted apron sprinkled with flour and what looked like the remnants of brown gravy and spread his arms wide at his friends. The sight was not unusual for Helga; she was very used to Gerald doing many domestic chores, but his favorite by far, was baking. When she first encountered Gerald, similarly covered in baking ingredients, and a bright green 'Baking Bad' apron on (indicative of his two favorite things, next to his wife and son), she laughed so hard, their neighbor knocked on the door, thinking someone was being attacked. It wasn't until after Helga sampled his Snickerdoodle and Butter Pecan Crunch cookies, that she was apologizing profusely, while swallowing the confections whole. What began as Gerald looking to satiate Phoebe's pregnancy cravings (without running to the store for sweets everyday), became a hobby that defied logic and most rules of so-called 'domestic bliss'.

Helga briefly commented on his apron before following Arnold into the narrow doorway and kicking off her flat shoes and asking where Phoebe was.

"She's just getting out of the shower. She was downstairs in the gym for a while today."

"The gym?" Helga asked. While in perfectly good shape, Phoebe almost never worked out. In her own words, chasing Levi was her cardio.

"Yeah, she's been going down there for an hour or so every day, lately…" Gerald said, bending to remove a tray of desserts from the oven. "Hey Arnold, I was talking to some of the guys on the boat. We might have a position open."

"Really? That's great. Thanks, man."

Helga took a seat at the large island in the kitchen, eyeing the plate overflowing with Lemon Poppyseed cookies. "You're gonna give tours, Footballhead?" she asked, hoping the conversation would distract Gerald long enough to swipe a treat from the plate.

Besides baking, Gerald was the creative director of a small fleet of tour boats and buses that planned and executed visits in and around the city under the name Urban Legends Tour and travel. What started as a weekend job in the Inner Harbor as a way to supplement and support his education, evolved into a business that was featured in Baltimore Magazine and frequented by hundreds every summer. Gerald was more than happy to offer his vast knowledge of the depths of the city to his business, and caused it to grow quickly in the few years since he'd started it.

"I'll do whatever I need to. Rent here is ridiculous." Arnold stated. He'd taken to answering an ad for a roommate in Halethorpe, just outside of the city, and living with three other guys, who aside from a slight obsession with Call of Duty: Black Ops, mostly kept to themselves and left him alone.

"If you're good with a mop, you'll be fine." Gerald answered, holding up a black spatula at Helga, causing her wandering hand to retreat and her brow to fold.

"Who's good with a mop?" Phoebe asked, emerging from the bedroom area, her shoulder length, wet hair sticking to her face and neck, and mostly covered with a blue towel.

"Who's good with a mop?" Phoebe asked, emerging from the bedroom area, her shoulder length, wet hair sticking to her face and neck, and mostly covered with a blue towel. Walking around the kitchen island, Phoebe joined her husband in front of the stove, and smiled appreciatively at the state of his apron and the kitchen around them. Standing on her toes, in a manner Helga could have sworn required years of training, she left a chaste, but sincere kiss on Gerald's cheek, and was rewarded with a smile.

Briefly, Helga wondered what it would be like to be really married. Not shackled into a one sided relationship or marrying a friend for convenience. A real, honest, the roast is in the oven and dessert is on the table, marriage. Her friends before her were far from flawless in their union; she'd seen Phoebe's eyes widen at a comment made by Gerald across the dinner table, and she'd heard the tone that Gerald reserves only for the rare occasions when he and his wife argue. She saw the strain that an unexpected baby brought on them; scrambling for months to figure out what kinds of bottles to use, how to save money on baby food, whether or not to use disposable or reusable diapers. With all of its imperfections, she knew that their marriage was not easy, but at least it was real.

In her contemplation, Phoebe already doled out the task of setting the table to Arnold. Helga looked up from her hands, that she didn't even realize she was staring at, to Phoebe lighting a pair of unscented candles.

"What are those for?"

"I just thought it'd be nice. Besides, I got my three year-old bathed, dressed and in bed forty-five minutes before his bed time. If that's not cause to celebrate, I don't know what is." Phoebe said, smiling, the soft yellow light of the candle reflecting off of her glasses.

Helga shrugged in response and moved to the other side of the island. "Is everything okay?" she asked, under her breath.

"I could ask you the same thing." Phoebe said, mimicking her tone.

"What do you mean?" Helga said, sneaking a glance at Gerald and moving her hand toward the plate on the counter, but also chancing a glimpse of Arnold, hoping he wasn't telling Gerald anything that she wasn't sure she wanted him to know. Saving their news for another night was looking like a better idea by the minute.

"Nothing." Phoebe said, quickly, as in the days of their youth. "And don't worry about me. I'm fine."

Helga broke the cookie, releasing the heavenly aroma of lemon before her. "Yeah, yeah. I'll believe it when I see it." she said, giving half to Phoebe, whose eyes cut across the room to her husband, busy in conversation with his own childhood friend.

"I'll call you about it later." Phoebe said, before walking away to place the twin candles on the wooden dining table. Helga wondered at her friend's evasiveness for a minute, before following her over. Arnold had already opened the wine and Gerald was haphazardly dispensing silverware around the table.

Helga was about to offer to help, feeling somewhat without purpose as everyone else in the room busily readied the table for dinner, when Arnold spoke.

"So, we have some news…" he said, releasing a breath and removing his hands from his pockets. Gerald and Phoebe stilled, two pairs of eyebrows rising at the term "we".

Helga's stomach flipped and the recently consumed cookie threatened to make a reappearance. "I got a promotion!" she said, loudly, in response. "Yeah, I'm going to be the Corporate Events Coordinator at the bar."

"That's great, Helgs. Which bar?" Gerald asked, happy for his friend, but suspicious nonetheless.

"Which bar do you think would have a Corporate Events Coordinator?" Helga asked, falling back into the tempo of her usual speech.

"That's really fantastic, Helga." Phoebe said, beaming.

"Thanks guys...well, I'm starved; let's eat!" she replied hurriedly.

"You guys are our friends, so we wanted to tell you first-"

"Maybe we should all just sit down and eat…" Helga said, pleadingly.

"-and, we both know this sounds crazy-"

"There's a Shake Shack going in Downtown!"

"-but we don't have a lot of other options right now-"

"I learned how to say 'fart' in Tagalog!"

"Helga and I are getting married."

"Oh crimeny."

For what felt like centuries, Helga covered her face with her hands, hoping that the last ten seconds were a figment of her wild imagination. That she and her friends were really laughing over wine and an exquisitely roasted lamb and not staring at one another in shock. Tentatively parting her fingers, she found herself to be only partially wrong. Arnold looked calmly between Gerald and Phoebe, standing across the table quietly. Phoebe's mouth was closed, but her eyes were so wide, she would soon have to watch out for the ceiling fan over their heads.

Helga dropped her hands to the table and spoke. "Look, this is obviously not how we wanted to tell you guys, but Arnold is right, there aren't a lot of options."

Gerald made the first move, seating himself across the pair and intertwining his hands. His gaze passed between his two friends, in a way that reminded Helga of a dentist when told that their patient flosses daily. I contemplative "hmmm" was his only response.

"I really appreciate you guys willing to sponsor me, but I think we all know that can't last forever, so this just…works." Arnold said. Helga was unsure whether they were still talking about getting married or negotiating a hostage takeover.

"So, you're…okay with this?" Phoebe asked Helga.

Before she could answer, Gerald cut in. "Of course she is."

"What's that supposed mean?" Helga asked.

"It means exactly what I said." Gerald began. "Of course you're okay with it."

"Maybe Arnold-O forgot to inform you, but I had a bevy of fantastic options lined up for him that he rejected. You're looking at Arnold's last resort."

"But not yours?" Gerald said.

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"I mean unless you're pregnant…"

"Gerald!" Phoebe said, shocked. "Of course they're not…they haven't…he's been here only a few weeks!"

"I'm not accusing her-"

"Yes, you are!"

"-I'm just saying that it could happen."

Arnold, raising his hand, chose to speak, as Helga looked like she was about to pounce across the table at his best friend. "Can I just speak for at least two of the people at this table, I don't think Helga's pregnant."

"Thank you, Arnold."

"Helga, are you sure?" Phoebe asked quietly.

"I think I'd be the first to know! What on earth makes you think I'm pregnant?!"

"Well for starters-"

"Gerald, don't-

"You've been eating a lot more lately."

"You've been making a lot more cookies lately!" Helga replied, pointing behind her at the counter.

"And you're extra moody lately."

"Have you forgotten who you're talking to?"

"And you're having a shotgun wedding." Gerald finished.

"Because I'm helping my friend, you mean." Helga couldn't help but allow her tone to become defensive.

"I'm sure Gerald was just joking, but really, can you blame him?" Phoebe said softly. With all the raised tones in the room, she was striving to keep everything she said soft.

"Yes! Yes, I _can_ blame him. Arnold and I are _not_ getting married because I'm having a baby. Need I remind everyone that this was not my idea?!"

"Of course it was."

"Was not!"

"Then why are you?"

"I told you, you chucklehead! Arnold needs citizenship and didn't like any of my other brilliant ideas."

"I think what Gerald is trying to say, is that you don't need any excuses. We're all friends here."

"Why would I need an excuse to marry Arnold? I'm already a citizen! I don't' need to marry anyone!"

"Helga…" Phoebe said, reaching across the table to place a hand on the arm of her friend. "…because…"

"It's really not a big deal…" Arnold said, avoiding eye contact.

"What isn't?" Helga was starting to get angry. Gerald was annoying her with his accusations and Arnold and Phoebe were pretending like they were in a therapy session.

"That you're in love with him." Gerald stated simply.

"Oh no…" Phoebe said for the second time that night. She would have to talk to her husband about the foot he kept putting in his mouth.

"What?!" Helga said, raising her voice. She looked to Phoebe, horrified. "You told him?!"

"It was kind of obvious…" Gerald said under his breath.

"He's my husband." Phoebe said, apologetically.

"What does that have to do with anything?!"

"He's very…persuasive."

"Gross."

"Helga, it's really okay." Arnold said again.

"No it's not! You guys," she cried, looking across the expanse of the table at Phoebe and Gerald. "Think that I'm concocting some…scheme to get Arnold to marry me! Like I'm some kind of psycho, or something!"

"Making shrines out of gum and saving Kleenexes is a little psychotic…" Gerald muttered.

"Gum?" Arnold whispered, sounding frightened.

" _Seriously_ , Phoebe?!"

"Sorry."

Gerald stood up, holding his hands in front of him, as if stopping a fight. "Look, if Anrold is fine with your plan-"

"There is no plan!"

"-then so are we."

"You guys are the ones who ambushed me with him!"

"It was hardly an ambush…" Phoebe corrected.

"Helga, no one is mad at you." Gerald said, trying to sound rational.

"Well, I'm mad at you! You guys think I'm some obsessed, ex-girlfriend trying to trick Arnold into marrying her!"

"He never said that, Helga…"

"But it's what you both think. In the back of your minds, I never grew up! I'm still nine years-old to you, aren't I?!" Helga turned out of her seat, and pushed it toward the table, roughly. "And what about you? You think I'm crazy too? You've been to my apartment; how'd you miss the life-sized shrine, Footballface?"

Arnold, immediately thrust back into the role of humanitarian and peace-maker, stood and held out his hands, palms front, trying to diffuse the conversation. What began as mild, if not unnecessary, teasing from Gerald was escalating faster than he could keep track of.

"Helga-"

"Tell me the truth!"

"…it may have crossed my mind, at first. When you were so quick to help me, but-"

Helga moved back as though she'd been shot. "Are you kidding me?" she said, quietly. The subtle break in her voice, almost made Arnold want to walk towards her, but he knew she wouldn't react positively after what he just said. No one in the room spoke; Gerald looked down at his hands, somewhat ashamed of the direction of the conversation; Phoebe's lower lip trembled just slightly, while her hands fidgeted over the wooden table.

"Wow. Thank, guys. Your confidence in me is astounding." Helga said, walking past the white couch and snatching her coat off of it, and heading for the door. A chorus of voices, so silent a moment ago, rang out, barely registering over the sound of Helga's heartbeat in her own ears. "No! Shutup! All of you, just shut up! You wanna throw stones? Fine; here it is: yes, once upon a time, nearly twenty years ago, I liked Arnold. I probably fancied myself a little bit in love with him, at the time. Everybody happy now?! Helga loved Arnold! The whole world knows! Secrets shattered!" she said, throwing her arms open, dramatically.

"But if you think, for one second, that I stayed in little Hillwood for you, or anybody else, you are dead wrong. You," she began, looking at Arnold. 'Traipsed around I the jungle, saving the whales or feeding the hungry in your big red cape, or whatever it is you were doing, and even when I thought I missed you just a little bit, I didn't stop living. I put myself through school, and I took care of my mother, and I buried my dead, and not because I was waiting on Arnold to come riding up on his white horse and save me from my life! I did it because I'm strong and smart and capable and I can take care of myself, and I don't need you or your sham of a marriage or anybody else!"

Helga turned to leave, but was stopped in the hallway, barely out of eyeshot of her friends, by the small being in the hallway. Levi, clad in a blue onesie with monkeys patterned over it and clutching a stuffed monitor lizard (a gift from his godmother), looked up at Helga, obviously awoken from his sleep by her yelling. Helga wanted to apologize; he was a toddler, but she still woke him up, but before she could speak, his free hand rubbed his sleepy eyes, before raising both arms, in a request for him to pick her up.

"Sorry, lil' man...", she said, feeling a lump developing in her throat as she stepped around him and continued down the hallway. She turned the corner and stopped with her hand on the doorknob.

It wasn't until she closed the door behind her that she heard Phoebe attempting to quell the cries of her infant son.

* * *

A/N: Don't kill me! While that argument was fun to write, it had to be done. I hope you understand. And, while this chapter is my longest, thusfar, I can't promise how long/short future chapters will be. I really hate drawing things out just to have a longer chapter.

Fun things about this chapter: Rent in Baltimore is ridiculous. At least Downtown, a.k.a. Where Pointy Objects wants to live. Ugh. $1,600/month for a one bedroom? You're great, B-More, but you're crazy! Also, a Shake Shack really did open up Downtown. I still need to go there. And I did learn how to say 'fart' in Tagalog. Partially because I typed the wrong word into Google Translate, but also because my husband is secretly a twelve year-old. Oh well. Also, this chapter comes out as Baltimore was named #2 on Zagat's list of Cities for Best Food in the United States! That's right! My city! *raises the roof* Okay, that's enough of that...

This chapter is dedicated to an author who, before a few days ago, barely watched Hey Arnold and never read any fanfiction about it (save for mine; so sorry, I have a list of quite a few celebrated authors who are far better than me), but left some pretty helpful and very flattering reviews for this story, for which I am eternally grateful. This chapter is for you, Discord!, because you simply rock! If anyone is familiar with InuYasha, check out some of Discord1's fiction. It's amazing, even the pairings that some of us don't support (cough, cough, Inuyasha/Kagome...cough...Kouga/Kagome for life...cough...). Thanks again, friend.

Let me know how you liked this chapter. Thanks, guys.

-PointyObjects


	9. Écarté

**Chapter Eight: Écarté**

Écarté - A position in which the dancer, facing diagonally toward the audience, extends one leg to the side with the arm of the same side raised above the head and the other arm extended to the side. **Literally translated "separated" or "thrown wide apart".**

* * *

" _Anything else for you, Senhorita?"_

 _Helga looked up from her map of the museum, and briefly wracked her brain for the word she spent most of the plane ride trying to memorize. "Uhh_ _…_ _bica, por favor?" she asked, offering a small smile. The same waiter took her order earlier and aside from a charming accent, his English was perfect. Still, she traveled this far to sample exquisite cuisine, see the world and not be a typical American tourist. Something as small as a language barrier wouldn't stop her from ordering n espresso._

 _The waiter smiled at her rudimentary speech, nodded and walked off. Helga paused again, enjoying the light chatter of the few people in the small outdoor café, obviously not understanding said chatter, and stretching her legs out toward the sunlight peeking its way around the white umbrella over her head._

 _Her first stop in Lisbon was the Museu de Fundacao, a museum within walking distance of her hotel and the airport (according to the man at the front desk of her hotel…clearly they had very different ideas of "walking distance") with several galleries, stunning views and lush gardens. She enjoying touring the museum alone and sat to have a small breakfast in the café. She forgot to set her watch to the current time, and left her phone back at home, and, without true knowledge of the time, wondered if she was eating breakfast or lunch. Digging her travel guide out of her canvas bag, she tried to find the chapter on Portuguese cuisine. Before she could read beyond a few words, though, a shadow passed in front of her, accompanied by crying. Forgetting about her espresso, she followed the voice, a weeping young boy, who seemed to be wandering the grounds of the museum's garden unsupervised and aimlessly._

 _Helga approached him cautiously; all she needed was to be arrested on her first day in a foreign country for looking like she was going to kidnap some strange little child. "Hey…buddy…" she began, trying to smile to calm him down. His inky black hair was in slight disarray and his olive-one face streaked with tears, but aside from that, he looked clean and well taken care of in a navy-blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. A crest on his shirt read the name of a school Helga couldn't pronounce. Holding out her hand, she smiled as he wiped his face one last time and put his tiny hand in hers. Hiding her grimace, she looked around for a customer service desk._

" _What's your name, kid?" she asked, as if he could understand her rapid and informal English. "How about this," she started, turning a corner and still looking around for a tour guide, if not someone with a better of the language than herself. "Meu…nome…_ _é_ _Helga." she said, using all the minimal Portuguese that she knew._

 _The little boy's face, however, lit up and he held her hand tighter. "Gio!" he said, excitedly._

" _Gio?" she asked. He nodded, as if giving her his name lifted his mood somehow. He seemed to be only four or five years old, and Helga surmised that he was just old enough to introduce himself to strangers, but too young to be truly afraid of them yet. "Well, good thing you ran into me Gio." she replied, finally spotting a Customer Service desk at the end of the long hall._

 _Lifting him up and balancing him on her hip, Helga jogged to the desk and waited in the line that stretched out ahead of her. Very person who stepped up to the desk was immediately greeted courteously and went on to rattle off in rapid Portuguese, that Helga could hardly follow. Eventually, little Gio rested his head on Helga's shoulder. The gesture made her smile, and coincidentally homesick. Little Levi had just turned two, and every time he attempted to utter the complicated syllables that made up her name, Helga couldn't fight the smile that would appear on her face. Instead of loneliness, the time she spent with Gerald and Phoebe and Levi made her feel like she was part of a family again, albeit a family that wouldn't make much sense at first glance._

 _After realizing that the associate behind the Customer Service desk was undoubtedly talking with a close friend (she was very new to the language, but working in a bar for as long as she did, she could tell when someone was talking to an old friend), and nearly stomped up there to demand that this child's parents be found. A line was now forming behind her, and she was clearly not the only person disturbed by the lack of customer service at the very desk that was supposed to provide just that. Before she could throw a proper tantrum, the sound of children, several by their footsteps, coming up behind her. She turned with Gio in her arms, to find a group of children, at least twenty of them, all in identical uniforms as the youth on her hip. They ran down the mostly empty corridor toward them, clearly excited to see one of them._

" _Friends of yours?" Helga asked, as the other children crowded around them. Convinced that they weren't zombies intent on tearing Gio apart, she let him down. She couldn't help but notice, among the children who flocked to him, a few stood back, waving around the corner at someone who hadn't caught up yet. Helga hoped it was one or both of his parents, as she was less than prepared to care for an entire hoard of Portuguese children on her first day in the country._

" _I said, may I help you?"_

 _Helga barely noticed that the line ahead of her disappeared, and she was currently the sole occupant of the Customer Service Desk, save for her flock of mysterious children. The customer service person looked less than thrilled to see her and a gaggle of children staring back at him._

 _Helga briefly considered looking through her guidebook to see if there were any suggested phrases that might make her explanation more plausible. 'Unless there's a 'What To Say When You Find Yourself Shackled To a Small Myriad of Children in A Foreign Country', I think I'm on my own…' "Yes, hello, I was sitting outside, and this little boy-"_

" _Whose children are these?" he interrupted, his thick accent coming through strongly._

" _Well, as I was_ trying _to explain-" Helga said, feeling her eye twitch, but ignoring the heavy footsteps parting the group of children to stand beside her._

" _Excuse me…" the man next to her said, placing a hand on her arm, as if offering comfort. What followed was a conversation that left as Helga the third wheel in a foreign language with a customer service representative, who seemed to hate serving customers and a man who looked every bit as American as herself, except from his mouth came a string of flawless, unbroken Portuguese with an accent she would swear he was born with._

 _But he wasn't born with a Portuguese accent. To be honest, she didn't know the accent he_ was _born with, but growing up in the same Baltimore neighborhood that she did usually didn't breed people who spoke quite like that._

* * *

Helga traced her fingers over the worn and wooden table before her. Her fingernails made a faint scratching sound, but left no marks. The clock above the door told her that she was a full five hours into her search, with nothing to show for it.

She couldn't decide if this was good or bad.

As a reward for her careful and well-meaning search, Helga opened the door to the fridge wide and browsed the shelves for something to feed her late night hunger. She surveyed a fridge full of food, more than was necessary for a residence that housed only one person, and felt no guilt in finishing off a plate of chocolate chip cookies that sat on the middle shelf. Removing the jug of milk next to them, Helga resumed her seat at the table, no longer worrying if she woke anyone. To even the most suspicious mind, which her current housemate was _not_ , she was merely restless and looking for a late night distraction.

Swirling the treat in her glass, Helga thought about for the reason for her impromptu trip. Her evening with Phoebe and Gerald still caused a painful flip to her stomach, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand their reaction. More than anger at her friends, she felt a stab of betrayal. The small circle of people she trusted more than any member of her twisted and fractured family were questioning her for her motives, of all things. Helga had never taken to being the philanthropist very well; she huffed at people who lost their jobs or put their own necks on the line so others could skate by. In her limited experience, if you don't watch your own back, it's your own fault, because no one else in the world is going to do it for you.

In the same breath, she could admit, the thought of marrying Arnold, for any reason, appealed to a hidden part of her. She would be lying if she were to say that some small part of her was not even slightly excited about the prospect. That part of her brain, however, was perpetually nine years old, which only heightened her anger. For the hundredth time, she considered whether Phoebe and Gerald were right. Maybe she never grew up, and the reason she jumped so quickly into helping Arnold was due to naivete and unrequited love.

Sitting back in the dining room chair, Helga wondered to herself if she still loved Arnold. She came to the realization years ago, that her 'love' for Arnold as a child was probably based on very unrealistic expectations of true love and affection. The notion of a healthy relationship was denied to her from so much of her family; Olga was busy living up to her parents' expectations for most of her young life, and had little time for her sister until it was too late, and Big Bob and Miriam didn't seem to know how to raise mentally sane children, let alone show them how to form relationships themselves. Falling for Arnold, and as a result, falling into Arnold, was inevitable. She grew up with so little that she could hold on to, and met with the first genuine act of generosity, Helga felt herself latch on. The release took years, and at times Helga was sure that, even unreciprocated, having nothing at all was worse than what she was living with.

She could admit, much as she hated to, that she even doubted herself sometimes.

Thinking on the argument any longer wasn't serving any purpose that Helga could find. Her anger at Gerald was draining; if she saw him at that moment, the most she might do would be to threaten castration or throw her glass of milk at him. Phoebe she would firmly assure that she was fine, and maybe bribe into buying her dinner. As for Arnold…that was a more complicated conversation.

Did he ask her because she was his friend? As a last resort? Did he think it would be easier for her to consent because she loved him, or at least used to? Was it easier?

Footsteps from the floor overhead rattled her out of her thoughts, and she drained her glass of milk and returned the leftover cookies back to their place in the fridge. Checking the kitchen area for anything she may have left out of place, Helga retreated from the room and made her way to the stairs.

"Helga…you awake?' came the voice at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, just…getting a snack." She replied, trying to make her voice sound sleepier than it was. She couldn't think of an excuse more gratifying, and it already explained the missing cookies from the fridge, if she were to be asked about it the next day. Helga climbed the stairs slowly, not really looking forward to trying to fall asleep so early in the morning. Nevertheless, she knew that her late night search was necessary, if not for the sake of the person whose home she was inspecting, but for her own sake as well.

"I'm so glad you came to visit…" the voice cooed. Helga considered the alternative and decided that she could take the cooing sweet talk, considering the utter lack of contraband found in the home. The other possibility was far worse, and nearly unbearable.

Helga reached the top of the stairs, offering a smile that hopefully said what she had not the breath to.

The pair of eyes that looked back at her were ringed with tiredness, which Helga hope came from the hour and nothing more. They were blue to Helga's hazel, haggard with fear and guilt. Helga wished she could be the empathetic soul that would wrap this person in her arms, tell them everything would be alright, and that her love and support were unconditional.

Instead, she waited for the embrace, that with only the slightest hesitation came, and reciprocated it as much as she knew how. The guilt she saw only moments ago was now burrowing a hole in her own chest, and she found herself holding the woman before her tighter.

"I'm just so happy to have you here, sweetheart."

"Me too, mom. Me too."

* * *

"Still no answer?" Gerald asked. Phoebe's only response was to hurl her phone across the room, in the general direction of her purse/baby bag. Instead of hitting its target, the phone bounced off the side and skittered across the floor. Knowing that she should retrieve it, Phoebe remained seated, despite knowing what happened the last time she left her phone on the ground and the resulting long distance calls when her toddler son found it.

"Don't worry," Gerald said, turning away from the television mounted on the wall adjacent to his wife. "She's probably just busy."

"Busy hating me." Phoebe responded.

"She doesn't hate you."

"We haven't spoken in a week."

"That's not so long…"

"We've never gone a week without speaking…" Phoebe whined, placing a pillow over her face.

Gerald knew this was serious. His wife was never one to whine about anything. "Look, I know what you're thinking…you're probably thinking that this is my fault-"

"The concept did cross my mind…"

"…and, while I don't agree-"

"What do you mean, you don't agree?!" Phoebe asked, shocked enough that she sat straight up, sending the pillow on a similar path of flight as her phone.

"There were a lot of variables at work that evening." Gerald stated, diplomatically.

"Let's see," Phoebe began, counting on her fingers. "Helga and Arnold telling us they're engaged, and you stating your vehement disapproval."

"My disapproval wasn't 'vehement'…"

"So, you disapprove?"

Gerald huffed. "I didn't say that I didn't approve of them. Besides, Helga could do a lot worse than Arnold."

"Helga _has_ done a lot worse than Arnold, need I remind you."

"You _needn't_."

"So, you think _Arnold_ could do better?"

The tone in Phoebe's voice lent Gerald to believe that he was already treading on thin ice.

"I didn't say that, either. Arnold deserves someone who understands him. He's been through a lot these past few years, and I don't want him to..."

"Settle?" Phoebe asked, coldness trickling from the single word.

"Do you think Helga is settling?" Gerald shot back.

"Of course not. I know Helga. She doesn't do anything Arnold related without thinking it over. I bet she didn't even give him an answer for a week."

"Well, I know my best friend too, and he doesn't do anything 'relationship related' without thinking it over, either."

"So, you think they're really going to do this? They're going to get married…"

"Looks like it." Gerald said, smiling. He was never in objection to the union. But his knowledge of Arnold's relationships status over the past year or more bred enough concern for the thought of him marrying Helga Pataki after less than a few months of knowing her. Gerald stood up, turning off the T.V. with the remote and smiled. "I'll go iron my tux."

The calm of the evening was broken when a wail crescendoed from down the hall, signaling the awakening of the couple's three-year old son.

Phoebe looked up at her husband, who, in turn, was looking at her expectantly.

"I'm guessing you want me to-"

"Yes." She answered.

"You know, I did bathe him tonight…just puttin' that out there."

"And I carried him inside of my uterus for nine months, while he kicked me and made be crave ham and pickle sandwiches. Not to mention the forty-eight pounds of weight he brought with him."

"…good point. Although, there is something so soothing about your voice when you read 'Goodnight Moon'."

Phoebe rose her eyebrows and pointed down the hallway. "Forty-eight, Gerald." She finally smiled when her husband disappeared down the hallway.

"Love you." He called.

"Love you too."

* * *

Lifting herself off of the floor, Helga cursed herself again for having stayed an extra day. She told herself it was because her initial 'search' through her mother's home was insufficient and sloppy, but she knew the truth. She was feeling especially vulnerable, and now, on the eighth day of not speaking to her two closest friends (three, if she were to count Arnold), and Miriam was being more nurturing than usual. Helga chalked it up to living alone, and not any motherly sentimentality. It was easier that way, and no one got their hopes up.

Spending an extra day with her mother meant the things she planned to do over the weekend got pushed back (again), the most pressing of her errands being a leaky kitchen faucet. Uttering another string of frustrated grunts, she wished that she'd let her landlord's nephew come by and look at it, even if it meant enduring hopeful glances from her neighbors and an impromptu engagement to a random Filipino man who probably made decent beef adobo.

"At least I'd still be engaged…" she thought, grimly. For the hundredth time, Helga considered reaching out to Arnold. Not to apologize, and maybe not even to give him a chance to apologize. His perception that she was willing to marry him because of some decades old infatuation with him was enough to get her blood boiling, even though he wasn't entirely wrong. The assumption is what angered her, and when she thought about it too long, she seriously thought about breaking something. She instantly regretted cancelling her subscription to that boxing gym on Charles Street.

Looking to her watch, she saw that she had an hour to get ready if she wanted to be in Mt. Vernon on time. Closing the kitchen cabinet and moving to her bathroom to shower and get dressed, Helga heard a knock on her door and nearly shouted for whoever it was to go away.

'Just what I need, a possibly broken faux engagement, a genuinely broken sink, and no word from my best friends in days, and the cherry on the sundae…a door to door salesmen trying to get me to buy life insurance and an egg slicer…'

Whipping he door open, Helga kept a look of shock off of her face.

"Well, speak of the Devil…" she said, leaning on the doorframe.

* * *

A/N: Not a long chapter (I did get past 3,000 words!) but I have a VERY clear vision of Chapter Nine and I'm literally going to post this and count the days until I post hat chapter, because it's so good! So many questions get answered in Chapter Nine. It might be my favorite chapter of the story.

Thank Snowstorm Jonas for this update, because Cabin Fever is real, and I'm feeling it, you guys.

Also, do you guys remember a story called 'No Competition'? It was a little something Arnold's Love (an author you should definitely check out, if you haven't) and I started writing a few years ago, and we just updated it. Please, please, please check it out; I know I can speak for her when I say that we both just love it. It's just an insanely cool story! So, let me know how you liked this chapter, and then pop over to her profile and read and review that. Thanks guys!

-PointyO


	10. Muddled

A/N: Hi, guys. I usually hate starting a chapter with an Author's Note, but I need you to do me a favor. Before you start reading, go to Youtube, or a music playing app, and look for a song called "Reckless Love" by a band named 'Bleachers'. The song is featured in this chapter, and it's brilliant. Also, if you've never heard it, that part of the chapter might not make sense. Please and thank you! Oh, and a thank you to my sort-of-beta Arnold's Love for reading and reviewing a portion of this chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: Muddled**

Muddle – V; When mixing cocktails, using a tool (muddler) to smash or grind herbs, fruit and/or sugar in the bottom of a glass before adding the liquid ingredients to intensify their flavors.

* * *

"I should kick you right outta here. You know that, right? I should kick you out, and punch you in your stupid face."

"Yeah, you should."

"It's what you deserve. I wouldn't even feel bad." Helga said, crossing her arms. Even though she was standing in her own kitchen, but still felt the need to guard herself. If anyone was going to give her a run for her money, as far as arguments were concerned, it was this man.

"You shouldn't."

"I won't. I'd break your nose and not even bat an eye." Helga said. When the person standing across the kitchen from her only looked abashed at his own feet, she broke. "Geez, Gerald, what do you want me to say? You…you said some things to me that no one has ever said. Not because they're scared of me, like usual, but because they were mean. You were mean to me. And I know I poke and prod and irritate you on purpose, but I've never been mean to you. Not like that."

"No. You haven't. And, I'm really sorry. My intentions-"

"Intentions count in your actions." Helga said, simply.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know…"

"Let me ask you something…do you know who the love of my life is?"

"I'm almost scared to say." Gerald responded, after a long pause.

"Phoebe." She sated. "Don't look at me like that. The 'love of your life' doesn't always have to be romantic. It's the person who comes into your life and makes you a better person. Who makes your past seem a little bit okay. When I was a kid, I loved Arnold, as much as you can love someone when you're _nine years old_. There was a brightness to him that I'd never seen in anyone before. He made everything around him brighter. But, he never made me brighter.

"So, if you can tell me that what you said the other night hasn't taken away the best friend I've ever had, then I can forgive you. I'll write it off and chalk it up as you wanting to protect your best friend, and we'll never talk about it again."

Gerald took a deep breath, taking in everything she said. "I'm sorry. I know it's lame, but I really am. I know what I said was out of line. And you know Phoebe loves you. Me being an idiot the other night wasn't going to change that. But, Arnold…he's my best friend. He's lost a lot these past few years. I don't know what he's told you, but he's not the same guy who left Hillwood ten years ago. Something changed him, and I'd hate to see him hurt."

"And you think I'd hurt him?"

"Not on purpose. Not…maliciously. But, I know you, Helga Pataki, at least a little bit. You're one of my closest friends. And not just because of Phoebe. I've watched you take down guys twice your size, without batting an eye. You can be…bristly when you want. You're stubborn and you hate opening up."

"And you think", Helga began, skeptically. "Arnold needs some soft, flowing princess, with silken locks and a voice like a babbling brook to come along and take care of him?"

Gerald followed Helga's lead and rolled his eyes. "You read too much."

"Speaking as a perpetually 'broken' soul, I can tell you, not all of us need fixing."

"Don't I know it. Second to you, Arnold's the strongest person I know. He's also the second most stubborn person I know. Just…tread softly with my man, alright?"

"Deal." She said, extending her hand.

Gerald took it, returning the smile. "So you guys are really going through with this?"

"I haven't spoken to him yet. For all I know, he might have already found my replacement."

Gerald scoffed, leaning back on her makeshift dining room table. "He'll come around. Just give him some time. Besides, I had a crazy idea the other day, but I thought I'd run it by you first."

"Of course you did."

"If you guys are serious about this…I could- I mean; Phoebe doesn't like it-"

"Well, if _she_ doesn't like it, I don't know if I should agree. She's definitely the brains in your relationship." Helga said.

Gerald was just happy to hear the teasing tone return to her voice. "-she says it's an archaic and misogynistic ritual, based on the misguided belief that a woman is property to be passed from one caretaker to another-", he said, ignoring the look of shock on his friend's face. He knew that if Phoebe said the phrase to him a hundred times, Helga heard it a hundred more. If nothing else, his wife was not only opinionated, but vocal. "But, if you want to succumb to societal norms for the big day, I'd be happy to lend my services in getting you to the end of the aisle, I'd be happy to lend my services."

Helga's shoulders fell, realizing the weight of what she was being offered. Save for Gerald and Phoebe, no one knew the impact of Bob's loss in her life. She rarely spoke of it, and even so, her friends knew the feelings with which she wrestled with. Gerald, having suffered a similar loss as well, knew that, in losing one parent, Helga essentially lost both. Miriam was anything but physically gone, but he knew that it was something she would never ask her mother for.

"Really?" Helga finally asked, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

"Yeah."

Sniffing once (and only once, she swore), Helga squared her shoulders furrowed her brow. "I would be honored, Gerald." She replied, trying not to smile too hard. "Alright, that's enough mushy stuff. Did you happen to drive here?"

Gerald shrugged, knowing any moment between himself and his adoptive little sister wouldn't last long. "Yeah, why?"

"Good, I need a ride to Mt. Vernon."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do. I have an audition I can't be late for. Grab your coat." She asked, as he rolled his eyes at her and immediately pulled out his phone.

"Fine, let me just send a text…"

* * *

Arnold fought distraction for the third time since walking down the long street. Early afternoon sun was breaking through the clouds, and the buildings around him were casting interesting-shaped shadows over the asphalt and concrete. The street corner changed a lot from his childhood, but that was sot of the running theme of his walk Downtown.

The message he received from Gerald, nearly an hour ago, was cryptic to say the least. It was merely an address in the business area of Mt. Vernon, with no details at all. I was just his luck that his first few days of training on the tour boat were short, and he could catch a bus in that direction immediately. Unfortunately, the closest stop was a few blocks away from his destination, and the chilly air didn't help the walk around the now foreign part of town.

Across the street, Arnold looked curiously at a building he hadn't seen in years. The only time he remembered visiting it (with any intention of going inside) was a class field trip to see an opera. The building before him had over gone numerous renovations, and even bore a new name.

'I wonder how many other places around here have new names…' he thought, suddenly interested in taking a small walking tour of the area. According to the map on his phone, the address Gerald gave him wasn't far away, and since there was no specified time to meet him, he decided a small walk wouldn't hurt. 'If anything', he reasoned, 'It might just keep me warm out here.'

He seemed to find himself in an artsy part of the city; signs pointed this way and that, leading to differing galleries, another concert hall sat across a grassy knoll, and nearly every corner seemed to have its own artisanal coffee shop. He wondered briefly why Gerald would want to meet here, of all places. Almost on que, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

 _ **You there?**_

 _ **Just around the corner**_ , Arnold replied, typing quickly and turning back to the street that housed the address Gerald gave him earlier. He still wondered why he was meeting him there, but figured Gerald would give him and answer when they finally met.

The building bearing the address was made of plain brick and sat on the corner of the street directly across from the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. It was ordinary, save for a black, vintage-style sign that read 'Baltimore Theatre Company, Inc.' in white letters. Arnold considered knocking on the doors, but tested the ornate brass handle first. Upon finding the doors unlocked, he walked into a nondescript lobby. The lights were dimmed in the large anteroom, signaling to Arnold that there were no shows going on at the moment. On one wall, behind an uncluttered counter, Arnold read the ticket times for a number of plays and musical productions. A makeshift list below it, written in messy handwriting, read a series of auditions. Scrolling down, Arnold saw that the last one started just over an hour ago. It was then that he heard music crescendo from the double doors on the other side of the lobby, which no doubt led to the auditorium. Before he realized what he was doing, Arnold cracked the door between the lobby and auditorium, and watched the lights over the stage grow dim, leaving the sole source of the light just in front of the stage, where a panel of people sat behind a desk. Making sure that the door behind him didn't slam shut, Arnold, slid into the last row and sat quietly, watching the stage curiously.

Seated in the back of the auditorium, the lone figure on the stage stood in stark white under the bright light over him, save for the top of his head, where dark black hair sat, obviously cut close to the head in some places, and longer in others. The music pulsed around the curved amphitheater, and Arnold's realization that he was no longer in the area to meet his best friend was fading against his growing interest in the display before him.

The man, tall and muscular, clad in all black moved expertly in on the far left side of the stage, seemingly ignoring the words, and dancing instead along to the actual music, but in such a way that only emphasized the lyrics more.

 _I keep finding my way to the harshest words  
I've got a strange, strange vision_

 _Of a reckless love_

Arnold was focused on the rhythmic, sharp movements of this dancer, so much so that, the entrance of the second dancer was a genuine shock. Another performer ran from the right of the stage, in what Arnold could only foresee as an oncoming tackle. The male dancer, turned his back, seemingly unaware of the approach. The run slowed in her momentum, and the resulting leap spoke of strength and grace.

 _Standing in a world of my own_ _  
_ _They call it reckless love_

Sitting upright, Arnold held the back of the seat in front of him and stared intently at the second dancer, having leapt on the back of her male counterpart, with one leg tucked close to her own body, and the other extended straight out in front of them both. Her arms clung tightly over the shoulders of the male dancer, before he threw his arms back and released her. Even in his very limited observations of her dancing (before now, simply a photograph of such, and an old one, at that) and a gaping unfamiliarity with her body, Arnold knew he was watching Helga dance.

 _So give me a chance to remember_ _  
_ _What I've given up to defend you_

When she swept her arms out and over her back, they curled like wisps of smoke, somehow formless and fluid at the same time. Helga managed to transform her body from soft curves and bows, to solid, straight lines seamlessly.

 _I would burn my dreams away  
Just to stand in the thankless shadows_

 _Of your reckless love_

When she leapt, as she did often in this sequence, every muscle in her legs and back were engaged, each foot bending to an impossible arch.

 _Standing in a world of my own_ _  
_ _They call it reckless love_ _  
_

Several times, Helga would find a way to contort her entire body in such a way that Arnold wasn't sure if her was watching a performance of dance or a magician. She would come down from a leap and extend her legs to the side and over her head in an elegant arch.

 _Standing on the other side_ _  
_ _Of your reckless love_

 _Thinking on the other side_

 _Of your reckless love_

The true shock came when the drums of the piece, which Arnold always considered the heartbeat of any song, dropped, and the singer's voice rang loud and clear through the auditorium. The words were uttered sharp and fast, and Helga, facing the audience, stood by her partner, matched the tempo of the spoken words.

 _Get out,_

 _stand back_ _  
_ _If you don't let go, you're gonna break me,_

 _and you_ _  
_ _Get out,_

 _stand back_ _  
_ _If you don't let go, you're gonna break me,_

They were not facing each other, but, despite this, their movements harmonized, like two hands controlled by the same mind. It was almost startling to see; two dancers, so opposite in body types, moving with absolute synchronization, without missing a beat.

 _Get out,_

 _stand back_ _  
_ _If you don't let go, you're gonna break me_

 _and you_ _  
_ _Get out, stand back,_ _  
_ _If you don't let go, you're gonna break me_

The sequence lasted no more than a half-minute, and before Arnold knew it, the music began thumping through the hidden speakers again, and the pairing seemed to dissolve. Helga still moved with poise and purpose and her partner with strength and depth, but their matched movements were finished.

It wasn't until then that Arnold realized what he was watching. More than a piece of choreography, he was privy to an act that Helga probably did not reveal to many. Even in the intensity of her movements, she divulged a vulnerability that she somehow kept out of every other interaction he'd had with her. It struck him as odd, and little bit moving, that a person, possessing such power and vigor could in the same moments uncover a soul holding itself together with thread so thin. Some of Helga's ire from the week before became even clearer, and Arnold's guilt bubbled into another sharp jab of pain under his ribcage. The thought made his curiosity deepen, and when the music was abruptly stopped, and the only other occupant of the auditorium, a man hidden almost completely by the lack of light over the seating area, stood up, Arnold took it as his que to vacate the area.

Once safely outside, he contemplated Gerald's seemingly urgent message again. Maybe his friend did not intend for him to see Helga perform (a short and informal performance it was, but brilliant all the same), but he intended to thank him for the invitation anyway.

* * *

Helga rubbed her sore shoulder – an injury should have seen coming when her partner suggested such a risky move- and shifted her duffel bag to her left shoulder. She didn't mind stepping in to help a fellow dancer nail an audition (which she was sure he did), and it wasn't so bad that the casting director approached her afterward, offering her a role as well. The pay was reasonable, nothing extraordinary, but money was money.

"Hey."

Helga whirled, knowing that in the part of two she was in, she was likely to have someone ask her for her number, or where she got her shoes. Her sore muscles made her disagreeable to either option. Instead, behind her stood the only person she was both elated and disheartened to see. "What are you doing here?" she asked, before she could stop herself.

"I got a text, and-"

"Of course. Freakin' Gerald…" she said under her breath.

"Can I…walk you home?" Arnold asked, not sure what to say.

"I'm actually not headed home." Helga replied, directing her gaze elsewhere. To her surprise, Arnold merely walked closer, smiling optimistically (Helga briefly wondered if he had any other smile), and continued speaking.

"Then I guess I'm headed wherever you're headed." He said. "We need to talk." Helga curled her lip and advanced down the street, and Arnold followed. "I should apologize."

"Ya think?" Helga said, walking faster to avoid him, and the awkward conversation.

"I should have been more sensitive to your feelings before asking you to…marry me." Arnold said, jogging to catch up with her. He didn't have to, as she stopped abruptly and turned to face him, seriousness sketched on her face.

"Let me stop you right there. You're talking about being 'sensitive to my feelings', but you're already wrong. There aren't any 'feelings'. Not really." She said, realizing how harsh she sounded. "I mean; I _like_ you; we're friends. And whatever happened in Portugal…it is what it is, and you're definitely one of the better kissers I've run across…"

"…thank you…" Arnold said, not sure if he should take the comment as a compliment.

"…but that little girl, who made shrines and carried around a locket with your picture in it-"

"That was _yours_?!" Arnold asked, shocked.

"-she's gone. It was exhausting then and it'd probably kill me now. I'm not saying there's...not something still there; but you have to believe me when I say that I'm not trying to fulfill some childhood fantasy here."

Arnold nodded. "Okay. I understand now. Sorry I didn't before."

"Thanks."

Let's just carry on…as friends." He offered, resuming the walk next to her, even though he didn't know where she wanted to go. He smiled when she fell into step with him.

"Deal." She stated, for the second time that day. They walked quietly, Helga guiding the stroll subtly by walking half a step in front of him. A moment later, she spoke again, this time a questioning cadence to her voice. "So…by 'carry on', are we…still doing this?"

"Do you want to?" Arnold asked, surprised that she was the one bringing it up.

"Well, you do have a job now…it wouldn't hurt to have someone covering half of the rent." She reasoned.

"Rent?"

"Yeah, you know, rent? It's what I pay a tiny Filipino lady so I can live in a one-bedroom apartment, with exactly one window in it, that faces a beautifully scenic brick wall." Helga explained, turning the corner to another busy street.

Arnold seemed unfazed by the joke. You want to…live together?"

"Not right now." Helga said, immediately. "Eventually, though, we'd have to."

Arnold looked questioningly at her, as if she'd ask him to donate an arm to her.

"Did you read any of the references I sent you? The Federal government isn't going to just interview us once and leave us alone forever. Every three years or so, we 're going to get called in for interviews, separately and as a couple. They'll question Pheebs and Gerald as well, not to mention our neighbors and coworkers. Questions like, 'Do they live together?', 'Do you ever see them coming and going in the same car?', 'Does Arnold have a picture of Helga by his desk?' It's pretty intrusive."

"Well, neither of us has a car….and I don't have a desk, so-"

"That's not the point, Footballhead!" We'll have to look and act like a couple…for years. Maybe forever."

"Oh." Arnold, replied.

"Yeah, 'Oh'." Helga mimicked. "So, if you're in, you gotta be _all_ in. Balls to the wall."

"That's weird thing to say." Arnold said, wrinkling his nose at the expression.

"It is what it is." Helga repeated.

Arnold took a deep breath and released it. "I'm in…under a few conditions."

Helga crossed her arms and looked impressed. "Footballhead throwing around demands…I can get used to this."

"I learned from the best." He answered. "First, let me pay you back for the other night."

Helga shrugged her shoulders. "I can handle that."

"And…I get to propose. Again."

"Ugh. You had to go and make it mushy."

"Or convincing." He reasoned.

"Good point. Now, for paying me back…" Helga said, before grabbing his arm and leading him down another busy street. The concrete sidewalk turned to chipped cobblestones as they walked down what felt like a widened alley. Cars parked on both sides of the street here, making passage via automobile tricky, but their path was surprisingly wide. The opening of the lane revealed a bevy of small shops; a convenience store, another art gallery and framing shop and others. Helga passed them all and stopped in front of a store, somewhat larger than the others with large windows, displaying furniture and wares in varying shades.

"A furniture store? You want me to buy you furniture?" Arnold asked, looking at the display.

"Not quite." Helga said, pulling the heavy wooden door open, as a bell signaled their entrance. They were immediately greeted by a young brunette woman at the cash register, asking if they needed any help. Helga smiled politely at her and said they were fine, even as she dragged Arnold toward a corner of the store, and released his hand to look at an array of objects on a shelf.

Her companion, however wandered nearby, socked at the variety of the store. Couches were spread out in no real order. Some areas of the shop looked to cater to a specific taste; one corner was decorated entirely in shades of red, while others seemed to be an amalgam of different styles competing for the same space. Arnold reached for a porcelain bust of a French bulldog (wondering for a moment why anyone would furnish their house with a bust of a French bulldog), when Helga's voice stopped him.

"Don't break that. This store is worth more than your life." She said, not looking away from the shelf.

Arnold contemplated the absurdity of her statement, he decided to skip the dog head bust and check out a white leather couch nearby. Turning the price tag over, he gasped, and dropped it immediately, if it were on fire.

"Helga! That couch is three thousand dollars!" he said.

"I told you…" she sang, still rifling through the shelf of knick knacks.

"Why are we in a store where couches cost three thousand dollars?"

"For this." Helga said, finally facing him and shielding her face with half of a vintage style lunchbox. Even with half of her face, hidden, Arnold could tell she was grinning like a fool, though he couldn't figure out why.

"A lunchbox? You want me to buy you a lunchbox?" he asked, skeptically.

Helga lowered the metal box and was indeed grinning wildly. "Not just any lunchbox. It's a Charlies Angels lunchbox. With a thermos! I had on when I was a kid, but I lost it." She finished, turning it over and smiling softly.

"This is what you want?" he asked, taking it from her gently and discreetly inspecting the price tag. Impressed that it somehow managed to stay a reasonable price something about the store told him they didn't quite make their money off of high-priced couches, but on people looking for low-budget trinkets), he shrugged and looked back at Helga, who was nodding. She was smiling genuinely for the first time since their fight, and he as happy to see it.

"Yup. And all will be forgiven." She promised.

"Alright." He said, palming his pocket for his wallet. "How'd you find this place anyway? Doesn't really seem like you style."

"They needed a bartender for their grand opening party, and I answered the ad. They even let me pick out something I wanted from the store as a gift." She said, beaming.

"And you didn't pick the three-thousand-dollar couch?! I'm disappointed in you, Pataki." Arnold joked.

"The gift limit was fifty bucks. But, I did get a fancy new muddler. And a soy candle."

"You'll have to remind me what a muddler does again…"

"For drinks like mojitos and Old Fashions, it…" Helga said, before her face paled and a look of utter fear crossed her features. Arnold looked around for the source of Helga's silence, before she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, and pushed him down roughly onto another couch of white leather and gave him the universal sign for "be quiet", rather urgently. Arnold had little trouble obeying the order, as their current position left him with many questions, but none he could seem to get out. With Helga's hands still clutching the front of his jacket, she'd fallen directly on top of him, their bodies flush against one another. Unintentionally, Arnold briefly thought about Helga's performance on stage; the long lines that her legs made when she extended them, glaringly white under the stage lights, contrasted by the black shorts she wore at the time, and following the curve of her hip up to her torso. Struggling to imagine something else – anything else, really – he hoped Helga wouldn't notice the reddening of his face, despite the proximity of her own. Chancing to look up, he saw that she wasn't paying him any attention, and instead glancing around the store like a startled deer.

Ignoring her previous signal, Arnold turned to her, perplexed and asked, "What is going on?"

Helga pressed her finger firmly to her lips, before slowly raising herself up to look over the back of the white leather couch. Before Arnold could turn his head and look as well, she spoke. "I need you to do me a favor." She said in a whisper.

"I thought the lunchbox was the favor…" Arnold replied, whispering back.

"No. Forget the lunchbox. I need this favor now. _Right now_."

"Okay, what is it?"

"I need us to stand up, calmly, you put your arm around me, like we're a real couple, and we need to _leave_ _this freakin' store_. Now." She said, urgently, while remaining silent.

"Wh-"

"Don't ask why!" Helga said harshly. "I'll tell you why later."

"Well, why are we whispering?"

"Because this is too urgent a matter to speak of in raised voices…"

"Why would you raise your voice-"

"Because we need to get out of here now!" she said, her whisper turning angry.

Arnold shook his head, but consented, Helga moving slowly, with him following suit. Abandoning the lunchbox on the couch, they walked, arm in arm (a gesture that once unnerved at least one of them, but now being performed seamlessly) toward the door.

"Did you find everything you needed today?" the brunette behind the counter asked.

Helga nearly jumped, but recovered. "Uh, yes, we were just leaving-"

"I see you two found our newest gem!" the saleswoman continued, happily. "100% vegan leather, hand-stitched, with solid birch handles. Isn't it just beautiful?"

"Yes, very beautiful, unfortunately-"

"Unfortunately, she's allergic to vegan leather." Arnold said, patting Helga's hand that sat in the crook of his arm.

"Oh." The woman said, her smile falling. "Well, we get new pieces in all the time; be sure to come back and see us!"

Arnold assured her that they would, and the two again turned toward the door.

'Home free…' Helga thought, just as her name rang out from across the store, her relief immediately followed by a string of obscenities.

"Helga? Is that you?"

She gripped Arnold's arm a little tighter (if the act was possible) and muttered a quick apology to him, before turning, a bright, though artificial smile on her face.

Arnold watched as a tall man, dressed immaculately with a cardigan tied over his shoulders and seemingly only a few years older than himself, walked toward them. His sandy blonde hair was cut in a tapered style, and brushed entirely to one side. Black rimmed glasses sat upon an aquiline nose, and while he looked friendly in his approach, Arnold couldn't help but wonder why Helga reacted so alarmed at seeing him. That is, until she said his name.

"Hello, Marc." She said, leaning into Arnold just slightly.

"Wow…it's been quite a while. How are you?" he asked, directing his question only at Helga, though his eyes made a pass in Arnolds direction for no more than a moment.

"Great." Helga replied, nodding profusely. "Well, it good seeing you, drive safe!" She attempted to turn Arnold around, but budging him was harder than it looked.

"Hi, I'm Arnold." He said, ignoring her tugging at his arm, and extending the other toward their new acquaintance. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Marc. And only good things, I hope." He said, cordially. His gaze fell back to Helga, who resumed her smile.

"Of course." Arnold said, responding in kind.

Helga on the other hand wanted to throw a heavily embroidered pillow at the both of them and make a run for it.

"What brings you two here?" Marc asked, a little too interested for Helga's liking.

"A coffee table." Arnold answered. Helga had to remind herself to tip her hat to him for lying so flawlessly with so little prep time.

"Ah. Well, this is the place to find one. Give my name to salespeople; I have quite the business relationship with them." Marc said, feigning humility.

Helga was holding herself back from rolling her eyes and gagging, when a syrupy sweet voice came around the corner and ambushed the small group.

"Honey! What happened? One minute, I was looking at the most darling napkin rings, shaped like little itty-bitty kitties, and the next, you've disappeared…"

'Oh no…' Helga thought. 'I should have run…'

"Oh. My. Goodness! Helga? Is that you? How are you?"

Before she knew it, Helga was pulled away from Arnold's arm and into a lung-crushing hug that lasted several seconds too long, as the person holding her attempted to jump up and down and bend her from side to side at the same time. Once released, Helga scowled at her sore muscles (again) but hid the grimace well with another fake smile. The woman before them was shorter than Helga and slim, dressed in a flowery sundress that no doubt, left her exposed to the chilly weather outside. Her tiny pale hands were constantly moving, either gesturing, or reaching for Helga, or flipping her long, curly, strawberry blonde hair in different directions.

"Molly. Hi. I'm great, thanks." Helga uttered, trying to answer all of her inquiries at once to make the conversation as short as possible. Remembering her manners this time, she brought her arm back to its spot in Arnold and gestured between the two. "Arnold, this is Molly. Molly, Arnold."

Moving her finger in between them (and subsequently making Helga want to tear it off of her hand), Molly smiled wickedly at Helga. "Are you two…"

"Dating. Yes, we're dating." Helga answered, intentionally avoiding eye contact with Marc. Her efforts, however went unnoticed.

"That's…that's really fantastic Helga. I'm so glad you're happy." He said, smiling sadly.

"Well, I think you look awesome! I haven't seen you in forever. How's the bar?" Molly asked, tilting her head, much like a puppy.

Helga noticed the ploy and released a breath. She nearly kicked herself for not seeing it coming. Molly was of the type to layer on compliments to ease the sting of an awkward inquiry, much like laying frosting on a cake that's falling apart. She could feel Marc leaning forward in the conversation, eager for an answer as to whether or not she still worked as a bartender, hoping against hope that she'd quit.

"It's great. You should come by sometime…" she suggested, tilting her head as well, knowing full well that neither Molly nor Mar would take her up on her offer.

"Speaking of coming by, you just gave me the best idea ever." Molly said, fishing around in a bright green bag that hung from her shoulder. It made Helga's clunky duffel bag look like an elephant in comparison.

'Really? The best idea _ever_?' Helga thought. 'Better than curing polio, or sliced bread or Netflix?!'

"We're having a little get together this Sunday. It's actually a housewarming party for Marc. He just bought a condo; isn't that lovely?" She said, leaning into him and patting his arm. "I wanted to have it on his dad's boat, but Marc said it wouldn't be a housewarming party…anyway, we'd love to have you."

Helga's eyes widened at the conversation happening before her. She decided to cut it off at the pass. "Well, Sunday is pretty busy for us…we have a thing to do in the morning. And then some…additional things to do that afternoon, so-"

"We'd love to come." Arnold chimed in. Helga rewarded him with a stare that promised to melt flesh and bone.

"Oh goody! I know I have an invitation in here, somewhere…" Molly said, Marc staying silent at her side. "Here it is!" she finally exclaimed, pulling the envelope out of her purse.

"Goody…" Helga repeated, taking it begrudgingly.

"I can't wait! This is going to be so. Much. FUN." Molly said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to see a man about some napkin rings!" she said, pulling Marc behind her deeper into the store.

Helga snatched her arm from Arnold and made no attempt hide her stomping exit from the store. Once outside and away from the wide store windows, she whirled on Arnold for the second time that day.

"What the _heck_ did you do that for? Now we have to figure out some way to get out of this!"

"Don't you think we should do things as a couple?" Arnold suggested, the sweetness in his voice a mocking tone that made Helga want to punch something.

"Not _that_!"

"Well, I think it's perfect." Arnold said, taking her arm gain. This time she didn't fight him. "We'll show up as a perfectly normal couple, at your ex-boyfriend's housewarming party, that may or may not be on a boat."

"How'd you know he was my ex?"

"You told me his name was Marc. With a 'C'."

"That could have been a different Mark. A Mark with a 'K'."

"Any man that ties a sweater over his shoulders doesn't spell his name M-A-R-K. I can't believe you dated a guy who ties sweaters over his shoulders." Arnold said, poking Helga. "Besides, he was acting very familiar with you. He didn't seem pleased when you said we were dating, either."

"Jealous?" Helga asked.

"A little." He answered, much to her surprise. "Why did you tell him we were dating? Is it because I haven't given you a ring yet?"

Helga flinched, knowing the conversation would come eventually, and braced herself for it. "It's not that…its, well…Marc _is_ my ex. Just not exactly my ex- _boyfriend_ …"

* * *

A/N: Did you like it? This is probably my favorite chapter of the story so far, second only to the next chapter. They're really funny, but the next chapter, especially is meant to be kind of thought provoking. I hope it comes through okay.

And, yes, to answer your question, I am obsessed with Helga being a dancer. I will find a way to add it into every story I write forever and ever. I just think it's so cool; this tough-as-nails, baseball-playing, tomboy, who can pirouette like a boss. She's my hero. I hope the dance scene was believable. And isn't that song awesome? I had to listen to it 1,000 times when writing that scene.

Let me know what you thought of this chapter! Thanks, guys!

-PointyO


	11. Relevé

Chapter Ten: Relevé

 _Relevé - In Ballet, meaning "Raised" or "Lifted"._

* * *

"You were _engaged_?!"

Helga wrinkled her nose. "Mmmm…sort of."

"How were you 'sort of' engaged?"

"It's kind of complicated." Helga said, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

"Try me." Arnold said, no completely halted on the sidewalk and staring down at her.

"Well," she began. "…it's kind of like how you're 'sort of' an American citizen: first, you thought you were, and everything was fine, and then you weren't sure. And then we sort of made out in Portugal, and then you weren't, and now _we're_ engaged." She finished, wearing a broad grin, meant to convey an end to the awkward conversation.

Arnold paused, realizing what Helga was trying to tell him. "…you were engaged when you were in Portugal?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"No." Helga replied, firmly.

Arnold was hardly listening, already on a journey of self-condemnation. "You cheated on your fiancé-"

"- _ex_ -fiancé-"

"I'm a homewrecker…" he said, quietly, beginning to drift away down the sidewalk like a boat loosed from a pier.

"No, you're not." Helga said, latching onto his arm and waling after him. "Listen to me: I broke up with Marc before I even booked the trip. I didn't want to get married, and we'd rushed into things so fast, so I told him I needed a break. A _huge_ break."

"Taking a break is not the same as ending your engagement." Arnold reasoned.

"If it makes you feel any better, I moved out of his apartment. That's pretty huge to me."

"You guys lived together?" Arnold asked, furrowing his brow.

"Briefly. Jealous?" Helga asked for the second time that day.

"Yes." Arnold answered, surprising her again.

Helga rolled her eyes to shake off the blush that was creeping across her face. "Well, I don't know what more proof you need, Footballhead. I moved out, I gave him back the ring. Granted, he didn't officially call the wedding off until I came home."

Arnold grew quiet. "So, you didn't…"

"I didn't call off my engagement because of Portugal. And I didn't…leave that night because of him." Helga said, the seriousness in her voice taking over for the first time in their conversation. Despite the aforementioned blush, Helga needed him to know she was serious (as if addressing the 'Night That Never Happened' wasn't serious enough) and looked him in the eyes, awaiting a response.

"Okay." Arnold responded simply. He resumed walking, waiting a half-beat for Helga to follow suit. Once again he extended his arm, and without batting an eye, Helga took it, trying not to think about how natural the gesture was becoming. "So, what do you mean by 'he didn't officially call of the wedding'? How do you officially call off a wedding? Is there a special kind of stationary to use, or something?"

"I wish it were that easy. Marc has a big family, and a lot of connections, who had to be notified..."

"Connections? Is Marc in the mafia?" Arnold asked skeptically.

"Not exactly." Helga said, worrying her lip again. "You know how Molly wanted to have Marc's housewarming party on his father's boat?"

Arnold chuckled before answering. "Sharp as a tack, that one."

"You sound like me. Anyway, Marc's dad is rich, that's all."

"How rich? Like, Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd rich?"

"Richer." Helga replied.

"Rex Smythe-Higgins rich?" he asked, astounded.

Helga laughed, and tugged on his arm. "You know that big gorgeous hotel by the Inner Harbor?"

"Which one?' Arnold asked, trying to remember. His job kept him below deck for most of the day, and even when he was enjoying the spray of the harbor, he was usually too astounded at the transformation that the waterfront made from his childhood days to notice a hotel.

"Doesn't matter. Marc's dad owns them all." Helga said, looking unaffected by the fact that she almost married one of the richest young bachelors in the city. Arnold, however, was in shock.

"He owns a whole strip of hotels?" he asked, pausing briefly to watch the cars whiz past them, as they waited to cross the street.

"More or less…" she said, bored with the topic. "So how do we get out of this?"

Arnold thought for a minute, quietly. "I still think we should go." He finally said.

Helga groaned, dramatically. "Oh come on, Footballface! Trust me, you do not want to go to one of those parties. There's always these dainty little finger foods, and it doesn't matter if you eat a whole tray of them, you'll still be hungry, and there's no music on, and everyone just wants to walk around and talk about how awesome they are, and his condo was probably decorated by some froofy Hollywood designer who doesn't know his head from a hole in the ground. You'd hate it." She sneered. Reaching into her duffle bag, she retrieved the invitation, now crumpled and bent, and handed it to Arnold, who promptly read it aloud.

"Please join us for cocktails, at a housewarming soiree in honor of Marc Pembroke-you were going to marry a guy named Pembroke…who ties his sweaters over his shoulders? Come on, Pataki- at his new home at 6570 South President Street in Harbor East, Baltimo-"

"He's living in _Harbor East_?!" Helga exclaimed. "That is so…so… _him_! Ugh!"

"Okay, what is Harbor East and what's wrong with living there?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her theatrics.

"Harbor East," Helga began, matter-of-factly. "Is where all the yuppies of this city live; where a hipster couple settles down when their tiny apartment can't fit anymore vinyl records and flannel shirts, because it's cool and retro to live in Baltimore, but they're too afraid of black people to live west of Pratt Street." She finished. "Some of that is Gerald's interpretation, of course, but it rings true."

"Well, Harbor East or not, I think we should go. They seem harmless enough. Think of it this way, we get to get dressed up, possibly make your ex-fiancé jealous and eat free food in an apartment neither of us will ever be able to afford. It's a better date than I would have planned."

Helga ignored the giddy feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of a date with Arnold, even if she had to be around people she couldn't stand in the process. "Fine…why do you always have to look on the bright side?" she asked him.

"Somebody has to." He said, shrugging. "Are we close to your apartment? I forgot how to get there…"

"Kind of, I'm actually headed to Phoebe and Gerald's. You should come by for dinner tonight."

"Helga, you can't invite me to someone else's house for dinner…"

"I can when we're more than a week behind in Couple Lessons. We have a lot of catching up to do." She smiled, running for the bus that pulled up a few yards away from them. She extended her arm behind her and waved. "See you tonight!"

Before she could climb the steps to the bus, Helga saw a hand grip the steel door of the city bus, and turned. She nearly jumped as she turned to find Arnold following closely behind her, as she stepped onto the bus. She inhaled sharply, not knowing whether she liked or disliked the feeling of being caged against the bus, and speaking hurriedly. "What are do-"

"I just wanted to tell you," Arnold began. "You dance really beautifully."

Helga released a half-chuckle, half-exhale, and started to look around nervously. "Uh…thanks…thank you." She said, mentally smacking herself for letting Arnold surprise her again.

"See you tonight." He repeated back to her, before turning to walk back down the crowded street.

* * *

For the fifth time that afternoon, Phoebe cursed her short arms and the dust that gathered under her couch. The retrieval of another of Levi's toys was coming to a very similar end; that end being that she had to get him obsessed with a new toy or contraption, so he'd forget about the ones under the couch that she couldn't reach.

Abandoning her spot on the floor, she looked around at her mostly clean apartment. When the prospect of having her mother-in-law watch Levi for the day first came up, Phoebe had a momentary vision of a day filled with long bubble baths, glasses of wine and finishing off a roll of cookie dough without Gerald around trying to bake it. Upon waking however, she found her day split between miscellaneous errands and random intervals of napping. She only had one engagement that day, a doctor's appointment, that would have been more difficult had she brought her three-year old with her. For the most part, however, she was usually able to navigate her day with her son in eyeshot (a rather wide eyeshot, as it happened to be) without much trouble. Helga called it being Superwoman; Phoebe called it Tuesday.

Unwillingly, her mind drifted again to her lately estranged friend. Nearly a week and a half, and no word from her friend, despite her repeated calls and errands that always found her on Helga's side of town. From what Arnold told her, she was having about as much luck as he was, and Gerald was mirroring her sentiments. While he wanted she and Helga to make up, his relationship with Helga was unique, to say the least, and they usually were fine after getting on one another's nerves and then taking a few days to cool off. So, when he took light of the fact that they hadn't spoken in over a week, Phoebe had to consciously throw her phone at her bag and not her husband. She and Helga had a vastly different, but still complicated relationship. On paper, they were polar opposites, in nearly every way. Phoebe studied Human Sociology in college and was currently raising a three-year old. Helga was a self-proclaimed 'Ballerina Bartender' who could tell the difference between a Kentucky Bourbon Ale and American Rye Whiskey, by scent alone. Their friendship defied odds, but Phoebe couldn't have been happier with it. In her mind, Helga kept her grounded. When she started innocently questioning (or as Helga put it, 'mercilessly interrogating') the woman behind the desk at the children's clothing store if any of their clothes were made of polyester blends, Helga reminded her that Levi was often found shoveling handfuls of dirt out of her houseplants and into his mouth, and as such, he probably wouldn't care whether or not he was wearing polyester. And when Phoebe grew so angry with Gerald for feeding their son more pastries than vegetables, Helga reminded her that Gerald is the same man who regularly runs through flocks of feeding pigeons in Tina Park for fun. Phoebe was prone to raised eyebrows and overthinking, Helga was the rational, yet spontaneous one in their friendship.

Breaking her from her thoughts, Phoebe heard the elevator coming up from the hallway, and made her way to the door, ready to let Gerald in. He told her that he was leaving work early to take care of something, and he might be home early as a result. She meant to ask him if he could pick Levi up while he was out, but forgot, knowing his mother would drop Levi off later. When a knock resounded from the door, Phoebe was puzzled, wondering if (in a moment of extravagant spending that he clearly did not inherit from his father), Gerald went grocery shopping again. He usually came home with exactly what they needed, but on other occasions, he would return home with enough to feed a family of thirty, not three. Wondering if he couldn't manage the door, due to full arms and hands, Phoebe shook her head and went back to the door.

In a momentary lapse of certainty that her husband was there, Phoebe grabbed the heavy black flashlight that Gerald kept by the door, just in case. Ignoring the peephole, Phoebe unlatched the door and peeked around, waiting for a face to appear.

The face that she finally saw was neither he husband's, nor an intruder's, and made her drop her flashlight as a result. She felt her mouth fall slightly open, and struggled to speak, but found herself cut off before she began.

"Look, Gerald made it mushy, and Arnold made it mushy, and then kind of weird, and all I want is to make up, because you were kind of right to think I was crazy for doing this, so don't say anything and just be my best friend again, okay?" Helga said, holding her hands up in defeat. Phoebe ignored the workout clothes and look of tiredness on her friend's face. Despite Helga's request, Phoebe's lower lip trembled and she immediately stepped beyond the threshold of her apartment to embrace her friend. She could feel Helga exhale, and return the hug.

"You had to go and make it mushy…" Helga said, only hugging her friend closer. Phoebe didn't realize the relief that came with seeing her friend, until after she'd gone a few days without doing so.

Releasing her friend, Phoebe tried to discreetly wipe her eyes. "I'm really, really sor-"

Helga shook her head. "It's okay, Phoebe. I don't need an apology."

"But I need to give you one." Phoebe interjected. "You're my best friend. I should have trusted you more. You're not a little kid who needs help with sleepwalking or something. You're an adult, and I shouldn't have been so quick to judge."

"Thank you, Phoebe. And, I do still need your help." Helga admitted, balancing on the balls of her feet, as was her habit when nervous.

"Not with sleepwalking, I hope. I'm afraid my methods were a little less than effective the last time we came up against that malady." Phoebe admitted, stepping inside to let Helga in.

"If only it were that easy; where's my boyfriend?" she asked, using her nickname for Levi, when there was no sign of him.

"Spending the day with his grandmother."

"The other woman…" Helga said, shaking her head slightly. It wasn't until then that Phoebe noticed Helga's clever nicknames for practically everyone she knew. "So you're flying solo today?"

Phoebe shrugged, happy that, even in their absence from one another, they could seamlessly fall back into their familiar friendship. "What about you? You look…."

"Just say it, Pheebs. _Awful_. I look awful."

"Not awful. Just, exhausted."

"Well," Helga began, taking a seat on the couch. "I had an audition, which went surprisingly well. Then, I ran into Arnold, which I don't think was a coincidence, thanks to your husband, and then I ran into Marc." Helga said, cupping her face in her hands and leaning over the counter.

"You saw Marc? Marc with a C, Marc?" Phoebe asked, shocked. As far as she knew, Helga and Marc had no contact whatsoever.

Helga huffed. "Yes, Marc with a C, Marc. Why is that his defining trait to everyone?"

"And you said Arnold was with you? What happened?" Phoebe asked, pulling a pitcher of water out of her refrigerator.

"He was cordial, Arnold was cordial, Molly was like a yipping Chihuahua, and I wanted to pull out my own hair. So, business as usual." Helga grinned.

"Molly?" Is she the one…"

"The one his dad hired to oversee corporate events, even though she has no experience, and then kept trying to set them up? Yup, one and the same. I guess something Daddy dearest said finally stuck. She was practically glued to his arm."

"You don't think they're engaged, do you?" Phoebe asked, curling her lip.

"Who knows? Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised. Marc is not one for waiting. You know we were only dating for a month when he asked if we could start looking for houses? Houses, Phoebe!" Helga said, covering her face with her hands. "Can you imagine me in a house? Signing a mortgage and having dinner parties and going to brunch with the ladies?"

Phoebe scoffed into her glass of water. "Brunch. Brunch for me is a handful of dry Cheerios and one of Levi's organic juice boxes."

"And he was always saying that I should quit the bar. I mean, what would I do during the day? Stay home and have his babies, like some-"

"Like what?" Phoebe asked, pointedly.

Helga swore under her breath. "Geez, Pheebs. I'm sorry. You know I don't mean it like that. I love you. And I love Levi."

"I know. I'm just being sensitive."

"And Gerald is nothing like Marc. He was so supportive when you wanted to extend your maternity leave. Marc, however hated that I worked, especially at a bar. He wouldn't tell people where I worked, even though that's how we met."

"I guess you're right." Phoebe responded.

"Of course I am." Helga told her.

"I mean about Gerald. He never resented my working. And it was so easy to take time off of work when we had Levi."

"And if you wanted to go back to work tomorrow, I'm sure Gerald would be just as supportive." Helga said, confidently.

The response she earned, however, was not. Phoebe mimicked one of Helga's nervous habits, and began moving her empty glass across the counter between her hands. "Umm…well, I suppose…"

Helga raised an eyebrow. "Phoebe…"

"I wouldn't mind going back to work." She said quietly. "I miss working. I miss my clients. And I'm starting to miss adult conversations. But Gerald and I are doing fine without me having to work, so why mess that up?" Phoebe admitted. Sometimes she felt guilty about unloading her worries on Helga, who had neither an employment issue, nor a child. But if nothing else, her best friend was always open to listen.

"I don't think you'd be messing things up. And you said it yourself, Gerald is supportive. He loves you."

"I just know how he felt about both of his parents working full-time when he was younger. I think he always wanted them to…carve out a little more time for him. I don't want Levi to go through that if we don't have to. And I love being home with Levi. I couldn't imagine missing all his milestones because I wanted to be at work."

Helga nodded and held her hands up. "I get it. But I think you should at least bring it up to Gerald, He might surprise you." Helga offered.

"Maybe."

"But what do I know? I've only been engaged twice. I'm practically a relationship expert." Helga joked.

Phoebe laughed. "So what did Mr. Marc Pembroke say when you saw him?' she asked, enunciating his name in an elevated manner.

"He said he was really happy for me. You know, the way people tell someone in a wheelchair that they're 'happy' to see them out and about. I forgot how condescending he can be."

"What do you expect, Helga? He's so used to looking down on people, and without even knowing it. Remember that time Gerald got Orioles tickets from a customer and he complained the whole time?" Phoebe asked, exasperated.

"'Helga, why are we so far away from the field? I can't see anything…we might as well have stayed home.'" Helga said, imitating his lofty way of speaking.

Phoebe covered her mouth with both hands, trying to speak between her peals of laughter. "And then…and then that Phillies fan started talking to him…"

"'Excuse me, sir, do we know you? Do we know him, Helga? Is he a coworker of yours?'" Helga tutted, turning on her barstool to search the cabinets.

"I'm sorry. I tried to like him, for you. I think it's actually against Maid of Honor rules to hate the groom."

"You hated him?" Helga asked, finally reaching a box of microwave popcorn on the top shelf, convinced that its placement was Gerald's doing. "You never told me that."

"I try not to hate anyone. But, he could be infuriating sometimes. And he was obsessed with me and Gerald. It's the 20th century, Marc; interracial couples are not that much of an anomaly anymore."

"It kind of is, in his world." Helga said, shrugging and placing a bag of popcorn in the microwave. "He once introduced me to a colleague of his who happens to be Indian, but he said it like it was the most interesting thing about him. It's a weird world he lives in."

"It's a weird world that a lot of people live in…"

"Something tells me we're not talking about Marc anymore…" Helga questioned.

"There was this lady in the elevator, and she asked me…if I was Levi's nanny." Phoebe said.

"Oh, not again…" Helga said, ignoring the popping coming from the microwave behind her and rounding the counter to hug her friend. "I'm sorry, Pheebs."

"It's fine. You know it doesn't bother me. But Gerald hates it. And people always ask how we're going to raise Levi. It's exhausting."

"And you tell them 'with lots of love and strong whiskey', right? The whiskey isn't for him. The love is; the whiskey is for you." Helga said, holding her friend's shoulders.

"I mean, 'Are you going to raise him as a black man? Japanese? Both? I don't remember my parents having to dodge so many questions, but maybe I just wasn't paying attention. Trust me, I know one day I _will_ have to answer these questions, from other people and from my son. What if he comes home and asks why no one else in his class looks like him? Or why mommy and daddy are different colors. Or why the 'flesh' colored crayon doesn't look like anyone in his family."

"Ya know, I always had a problem with that. And nude-colored bras and underwear; selective use of a very common word. If it makes you feel any better, on his first day of school, I'll buy him a box of crayons, and I'll rip all the labels off. No crayon-induced, systematic racism for my half-black, quarter Japanese, quarter- Caucasian godson. You can bet your nude-colored bra on that." Helga said, dumping the hot popcorn into a bowl the pulled from the dishwasher.

"Have I told you you're the best friend ever?" Phoebe asked, smiling.

"Not yet. But, there's still a few hours left in the day."

* * *

"You guys really are moving fast…engaged in only a few weeks and now you're meeting exes…you're a bold kid, man." Gerald said, patting his friend's back as they rode the elevator up to Phoebe and Gerald's apartment. After leaving Helga, Arnold made his way back to the docks and told Gerald about their afternoon, and Helga's impromptu invitation.

"That definitely wasn't a milestone I thought we'd reach so soon…" Arnold said, rubbing the back of his neck, nervously.

"I just wish I could have seen Marc's face when Helga said you two were dating."

"He was…okay…" Arnold replied, trying to be as nice as possible. The short interaction wasn't a lot to go on, but, Arnold hoped that the awkwardness of the situation was due to its spontaneity, not the relationship status of all involved. "What was he like with you guys?"

"Let me put it this way, you wouldn't think our Helga would get together with a guy like that. Not in a million years." Gerald replied.

"But you guys were alright with him marrying Helga, right?"

"Rule One of being married, Arnold: your wife's friends are _your_ friends." He told him, stepping out of the elevator. "You won't realize it at first, but you learn about them, and if they wanna get married, you gotta be friends with that guy too. So, yeah, I was nice to him, but he was a pain."

Arnold shook his head, wondering again how Helga found herself in a relationship, and even engaged to someone her friends couldn't seem to stand. Marc was polite enough, but in an arrogant and even patronizing way, two words that he couldn't use to describe Helga in any capacity. A little insane? Yes, but never arrogant.

Gerald unlocked the door and let Arnold in before him. Before the two were far into the apartment, the smell of popcorn assaulted their senses ad Gerald groped the wall for the light switch. Once in the living room area, he ignored the light for favor of the scene before him.

Illuminated solely by the light from the T.V., Phoebe and Helga sat on opposite ends of the couch, with their feet extended toward one another, with a bowl of popcorn sitting atop a shared blanket. Neither sat or ate with any sense of decorum, Helga shoveling handfuls of popcorn into her mouth, and his wife yawning loudly. From the state of the living room, he could tell they had made up hours ago, and were enjoying the spoils of their old friendship.

"This disease is entirely implausible…" he heard Phoebe say, after she yawned.

"What?" Helga replied, around a mouthful of popcorn. "This disease is _awesome_! It killed Gwenyth Paltrow; what could be better than that?!"

"The incubation period is all off. Any successfully lethal disease has a long incubation period, and a quick kill time. This disease was too easy to track." Phoebe said.

"You're taking all the fun out of the disease, Phoebe…"

"What is going on?" Arnold whispered to his friend. The scene was funny, but far more confusing to him than it was to Gerald.

In response, Gerald smiled and shook his head. "Phoebe and Helga like dissecting horror movies."

"I'm telling you; longer incubation period, coupled with higher rates of transmission, is a much more effective way of spreading a virus!" Phoebe argued.

"And I'm telling you, that Matt Damon survives, so I don't care if the virus isn't believable!" Helga yelled back. The tone of their voices, convinced Gerald that there was no more fight left in them, just normal, albeit loud, debating.

"Alright, lets break up this meeting of the Psychopaths of America…" Gerald said, finally turning on the lights in the living room. "We have some training to get to. These kids have less than a week to get you guys to start acting like real couple. Especially considering you guys have almost no physical contact experience with one another."

Despite being on opposite sides of the room, Arnold and Helga met eyes and matched expressions of shock. Helga froze in her spot on the couch, and Arnold refused to move any farther into the room. Phoebe was the first to notice the change, and looked quizzically at her friends.

"Helga? What's going on?" she asked, moving to stand up from the couch.

"Uhhhhh…," Helga responded, moving her mouth to form words, but with no discernable meaning.

Arnold stepped forward then, addressing Phoebe and Gerald. "Actually, we have something to tell you guys…"

* * *

A/N: Oh, I am so evil. *insert maniacal laughter* Do you guys see why I loved that chapter?

So, someone reviewed to the last chapter, saying that they liked that I wrote a 'strong' Phoebe, which I appreciate very much. I've based her on one particular friend of mine, but I like to think that she's an amalgam of friends and mothers that I've known throughout the years, and I am a firm believer in the thought that moms are some of the strongest people on earth. Like, don't mess with a momma. She'll cut you. Anyway, in this chapter, I don't want people to think I went back on that because Phoebe cried. A) Crying is not indicative of weakness, and B) We all have a friend that we can break down in front of. So, I fully intend on keeping Phoebe the strong, forward-thinking character she's always been, but, Helga is her best friend and I like writing about their friendship in its truest form, which sometimes involves a few tears. Remember, Phoebe cried on Helga's behalf in the very first episode of the show…think about it…

Also, since I shamelessly pimped myself out, by telling you to go read No Competition, I figure I should do the same, and pass on a recommendation for stories that I've read/am reading and enjoyed. I started reading a story today called 'Spanish 2 Was All For You', and it is SO cool. The Author's name is Polkahotness (Isn't that an awesome penname? Man, I need to have a cool penname…), and you won't be disappointed. It's like a cool twist on The Jungle Movie. And don't walk into it thinking you know what's gonna happen, because you don't. I thought I did. And guess what? I didn't. You won't either. But, you;ll like it. Check it out.

Thanks for reading, my loves! Let me know what you thought of this chapter!

-PointyObjects


	12. Garnish

**_Chapter Eleven: Garnish_**

 _Garnish- Noun. In bartending, an ornamental element added after the completion of a drink to enhance presentation._

* * *

 _In the span of a few minutes, Helga was being escorted outside of the museum's main gallery and into the bright sun of the largest courtyard on the property. Despite being an adult amongst a group of otherwise rambunctious children, she was being gripped by her shoulders and led out of a public place, whereas the gaggle of children somehow placed themselves into two lines and walked out orderly, without being told. Once everyone was back outside and accounted for, Helga whirled on her captor._

 _In the span of time that he was conversing excitedly at the Customer Service desk, Helga assured herself that, somehow, in an effort to vacation alone, for the first time in her life, she did_ not _run into Arnold. Not in a foreign country, and not on her first day in that foreign country. She told herself that Arnold was off in the jungle, swinging from a vine and reading ancient hieroglyphics on the side of some crumbling temple. However, the walk out of the museum confirmed it, and she was determined to handle herself with dignity and utmost politeness. His hands on her shoulders was almost enough to throw her off, but she could not be so easily swayed…or so she told herself._

" _What is the big deal Footballhead?" she asked, forgetting her notion to approach the situation calmly and holding her bag closer to her shoulder. "What was_ that _all about?!"_

" _Sorry, it's my first time taking the kids on a field trip; you have no idea how many requests I had to make to get them here, and I couldn't lose…Helga?" he said, seeming to finally realize whom he was speaking to. "Wha…what are you doing here?"_

" _What are_ you _doing here?!" Helga replied, ignoring the stares of the youngsters standing around them. "I was enjoying a nice, mid-morning_ bica _in the café of the...beautiful…Museu da…Fun…Fund…" she began, struggling over the name of the building they stood before._

" _Museu da Fundacao Calouste Gulbenkian?" Arnold responded, smiling. Helga told herself that the heat dusting itself across her face was due to the mid-morning sun, and nothing else._

" _Yes, the_ that _. In beautiful Lisbon, Portugal. When I was chanced upon by Gio, and then I ran into you. Not too bad for only knowing three words in this language."_

" _Gio's a good kid, but he likes to wander. I'm surprised you're vacationing alone…" Arnold said, trailing off and letting his arms cross._

" _Yes, I am, Arnold. It's the 21_ _st_ _century. Women go out of the country alone all the time." Helga responded, crossing her own arms this time._

" _That's not what I meant." Arnold stated, putting his hands up in mock defense. "I just think it's funny that you would come_ here _."_

" _Whys it funny?" Helga asked. She immediately wanted to retract her question, or in the very least, word it with a little less hostility. It wasn't like he was interrogating her, and after all, she had no prior connections to the country. It was just convenient, and she needed a conveniently placed trip out the country to free her mind and relax._

" _Nevermind. So, how do you like it so far?" Arnold asked. The children had long since started a game of tag in the grassy area of the courtyard._

" _I've only been here a day. This is actually the farthest I've made it from my hotel. So, what are you doing here? Aside from corralling toddlers." she asked, standing up straight. The question was somewhat unnecessary, as the matching shirts of the children with them bore the same seal on Arnold's red shirt._

" _I'm a teacher." He stated simply._

 _Helga attempted a casual nod at this. "A teacher? That's awesome." she remarked. "I'm guessing these are your students." Helga said, waving at the group of young students, who seemed occupied with speaking animatedly to one another and paying their teacher and his friend little attention. She was partially glad for the distraction; had she just met Arnold here, alone, she would have found herself staring at him. Not only had he somehow grown taller, if her memory served, but less boyish. Gone was the gawky, slightly awkward, teenager who packed up and left Baltimore only a year after graduation. In his place was a decidedly adult Arnold, with well-rounded shoulders and the ghost of a stubble on his face. Helga had to keep herself from running hand over it._

 _Arnold shrugged. "Technically, I'm a student teacher; which is why it was so hard getting the permission to take the kids out for the day."_

 _Helga nodded in response, not sure where to lead the conversation. The sun was beating down on her partially bare neck, but she knew better than to bring up the weather. It was awkward and she knew that, even though she didn't come into the country with the express purpose of talking to Arnold, she didn't want to ruin the opportunity by saying something boring, or worse, stupid._

" _So, you haven't been home, in like…years."_

 _Helga finished her statement and wasn't sure if she should take off running across the green or try to melt into a puddle in the hot sun. Had she done anything resembling stretches that morning, she would have lifted her leg up, and used her own foot to kick herself in the head, hopefully hard enough to pass out. Conversation in English or otherwise, was clearly not in her favor, and Arnold, as usual, was oblivious to her discomfort. "I'm sorry; that was weird. Forget I said that…"_

" _It's really okay." Arnold responded, somewhat quietly. "It has been a long time…I miss it sometimes."_

" _Well, on behalf of your childhood home, feel free to come visit anytime. I'll even give you a tour. A lot has changed." She said, not sure if she was talking about the city or herself. Both were dramatically different than they'd been some eight years ago._

" _I might take you up on that, Helga."_

 _She almost swooned at his saying her name for the first time in years, but was cut off at the sound of a loud, rumbling bus approaching the Museum entrance. The children, now engrossed in a game of tag, seemed unaware of the bus, and continued chasing on another around the lush green lawn. Over his shoulder, Arnold issued a command in fluid Portuguese, that most of the children adhered to. Helga, on the other hand, stood silently, happy that she was able to have a mostly sane conversation with Arnold, in another country, no less. Turning back to face her, Arnold shrugged again._

" _That's us. Thanks for finding Gio." He said, smiling genuinely._

" _Don't say I never did anything for you, Footballhead." Helga replied._

" _You're never going to stop calling me that, are you?"_

 _Helga feigned deep thinking for a moment and shook her head. "Nope. See you around." She said, congratulating herself for exiting the conversation without sticking her foot completely in her mouth. Hopefully, should she ever see Arnold again, he would forget their awkward encounter and they could start fresh. Again._

" _Hey, Helga!"_

 _Forgetting to rid her face of the look of utter fear, Helga turned, nearly stumbled, and recovered in the span of three seconds. Instead of answering, she raised her eyebrows to let Arnold, who was calling her name over the heads of other Museum visitors, to let him know that she heard him. Offering a few short words to the kids behind him, he weaved through the small crowd until he was standing before her again._

" _What are you doing tomorrow night?" he asked, breathing hard as if he'd just ran a considerable distance, as opposed to a few yards, and smiling down at her._

" _Uh…" she began, caught off guard by the question. If anything, she was expecting him to tell her that she'd been walking around all morning with toilet paper stuck to her shoe. "Nothing. Why?"_

" _Do you wanna grab dinner? With me?"_

 _The sincerity in his voice startled her. She offered the tour of their childhood home as somewhat of a joke, but his counteroffer was far more appealing. A beautiful, bustling city in halfway across the world…with Arnold. It was too much, and Helga knew she had to refuse. Besides, the point of her impromptu trip was to get away from people, not trail after them in a foreign country. No, she was certain that she would have to refuse his offer and find something else to do for the evening._

" _Sure." She breathed, smiling anyway. 'So much for refusing…'_

* * *

 _She voiced her mantra when she woke up the next morning._

 _When the small hotel she stayed in spread a modest breakfast of food that were mostly foreign to her, she sat and said it to herself a few more times._

 _Walking around the small square near her hotel, she passed by a particularly reflective store window and repeated the question._

 _Standing under the spray of the shower, she thumped her head against the white tile of the shower and asked herself until she gave herself small headache._

" _What am I doing?!" Helga finally asked out loud, after stabbing herself in the eye with a particularly sharp mascara wand and throwing it across the bathroom. She hoped that the hotel staff wouldn't question her about the black mark that it left on the opposite wall, but if they did, she wasn't sure her excuse would hold up._

' _Well, I made the mistake of agreeing to go on a date with the childhood love of my life, so I threw some of my makeup around the bathroom. No big deal.'_

 _But it was a big deal, to her, anyway._ _Because if traveling alone to a foreign country, without telling any friends or family where you're going, was a bad idea, doing all of those things_ and _reconnecting with the childhood love of your life a mere four months after breaking off your engagement is the worst idea conceived. She reasoned on this since Arnold asked her to dinner and found her logic to be sound; she was making a colossal mistake, and should cancel as soon as possible._

 _She thought about this as she smoothed the front of the dress she wore in front of the full length mirror in her hotel room. Helga did so little research before booking her trip, and she found her suitcase to be a cacophony of pieces that hardly went together, let alone matched, and made little sense to her now. The only redeeming piece of clothing she brought along with her was the item she was currently wearing; a blue and white striped dress, cut short across her mid-thigh and strapless._ _It was an impulse buy from months prior, when she found herself invited to a myriad of garden parties and rooftops soirees, with nothing to toe the line between formal and casual._ _If the heat from the evening prior was anything to go by, the strapless number was perfect, and she clumsily lifted her arms in front of the mirror to check that she wasn't already developing sweat stains. The only pair of heels she owned stayed nested in the bottom of her luggage, and instead, opted for a pair of flat sandals. Her first few days in the country were marked by more walking than she'd ever done in her life, and the last thing she wanted to do was break a heel and sprain an ankle in front of Arnold._

 _Instead of running her hands down her face like she wanted, Helga ran her hands through her hair (recently cut to commemorate her newly-single status), hoping it looked more "sexy tousled" than "cockatoo nest". She briefly wished she'd procured a phone number so she could call and claim dengue fever or some other life-threatening illness that would keep her in her hotel room to eat away her embarrassment alone with the room service menu. The knock on her door, however, was not room service but the source of her apprehension, and she fleetingly considered if both of her legs would break if she jumped out of the window at that moment. Instead she took a deep breath, and approached the door, trying to school her features as she opened._

" _Hey." Arnold said, not quite standing in front of her door, causing him to lean somewhat to greet her. "You look…really great."_

 _Helga nodded, nervously, trying to coax the lump in her throat down into her stomach. "Thanks. Um, about tonight-" she began._

" _Are you ready to go?" he asked._

 _Helga released a breath she didn't know she was holding. Mentally, she asked herself why she was being so apprehensive. She wasn't spoken for. She wasn't making a commitment. This was dinner. Just dinner, with an old friend, whom she admittedly had strong feelings for. But, it was better than going to a foreign country and having dinner with a stranger. And Arnold was a teacher. What kind of trouble could she get into having dinner in a foreign country with Arnold The Teacher?_

" _Yeah. I'm ready."_

* * *

"So, that's it?" You guys went on a…date? That's it?" Gerald asked, clearly unimpressed. The length of the story drove him to sit on the couch by his wife, leaving Arnold and Helga to stand, somewhat unnecessarily to tell the narrative.

Helga rolled her eyes at his response, shrugged, and avoided looking at Phoebe. If no one else in the world could, her best friend could read her like a book. Phoebe would see it. She was surprised she hadn't already. She would know, and see right through the holes and omissions in their story and Helga just hoped that if she looked anywhere but right into Phoebe's eyes, maybe she could stave off the telepathic interrogation.

Her friend's brown gaze, however, was too strong. Cutting her eyes across the room, they landed on Phoebe's without volition.

"It just seemed like something you guys should know, as our best friends…so that we're all on the same page." Arnold said, glancing briefly at Helga. The look signaled that they at least, were on the same page, while Gerald and Phoebe were still being introduced to the book.

"Well, I'm glad you informed us, but Gerald is right. it sounds like a perfectly acceptable evening." Phoebe said, sitting back comfortably under her husband's arm. Helga stole a look at Gerald, who was looking at Arnold in a way that she couldn't identify. If Phoebe was neglecting her 'telepathic interrogation' powers, Gerald was making good use of them. Looking between the two men, Helga could sense something unspoken between them, and in an instant, thought about what Gerald said when he came over to her apartment to apologize; when he asked her to 'tread softly' with him. She worried for a moment that Arnold had already shared details of their trip with his best friend.

"Right. Thanks guys." Helga said, breaking the considerably awkward silence enveloping the room. "Ya know, you guys have to go get Levi...maybe we can do this some other night…" she suggested.

"Yeah, we can get together Friday, maybe." Arnold said, falling into stride with Helga's thinking. The two were met with only gentle protests from the tired parents, and after a series of goodbyes (and some "helpful" hints from Gerald), Arnold and Helga exited the building, speaking little to one another. Helga motioned in the direction of the bus stop she had to take to get home, and Arnold followed, indicating that he would at least walk her there.

"So, wanna explain why didn't we tell Phoebe and Gerald what really happened?"

They'd gotten a full block away from Gerald and Phoebe's apartment building, and Helga could feel the question lingering between them, waiting to drop like a hammer or an anvil in a cartoon. She braced for the impact from the moment they agreed to let Phoebe and Gerald off for the evening to retrieve Levi, and assured them that they would be fine without lessons.

"We did tell them what happened…I met you at the museum, drowning in a gaggle of children, and the next day we went out for dinner. Did anything else happen that evening that I forgot?" Helga asked, pausing as the 'Walk' sign across the street from them turned into a flashing red hand.

"Helga…" Arnold said, using the tone he reserved for her when she wanted to do something morally ambiguous like lying to her friends by omission or releasing cockroaches in a restaurant that she couldn't afford to eat in.

Helga rolled her eyes. "Well, I didn't hear you stepping in to offer any provocative details…and besides, they didn't ask about the _next_ night…"

"Do you even want to have this conversation?"

"You started it, Bucko." Helga snapped back. "And, yes, we have to eventually."

"Is "eventually" now?" Arnold asked her, momentarily distracted by the Sight of the dark sky against the lit up windows of the city's tall buildings. At her silence, he went on. "I just can't shake the feeling that you're…"

"That I'm what?"

"…a little ashamed. Of what happened." He said, sheepishly.

Wounded egos ignored, Helga scoffed. "I don't have anything to be ashamed of. That's not it. I just…ya know what, nevermind. Just drop it." She said, decisively.

"What is it?" Arnold asked.

"I just think, with all this going on, I think you should have an ace up your sleeve. Ya know, a Plan B." she explained.

"You don't like my Plan A? And what does that have to do with Portugal?" Arnold asked.

"Nothing, I guess. I'm just being crazy. You know that, right? I was crazy a year ago, and I'm probably crazier now. I just don't know if you should put all your eggs in the Helga Pataki basket. We Patakis don't make good baskets. We're more like old, rusted out buckets, full of holes that might spontaneously explode. Not a good place for storing eggs."

Arnold smiled. "I know you're crazy. You've always been crazy. You can't scare me off that easily. And, I sort of have a backup plan…" he began., and Helga secretly hoped it wasn't an idea she offered him when he first presented his problem to her. She felt herself sinking back into her old ways, and instead of a startling fall backwards, it was beginning to feel like slipping on an old pair of pointe shoes. Even if they were worn out, and useless and pinched in the same places, she could revel in the comfort of falling into an old, secure routine.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, keep the shakiness from her voice. "Enlighten me, Hairboy."

"I was thinking about going to the Boarding House next week. Just to see if I can find something useful." He said, simply.

Helga could tell that he'd practiced the statement extensively. She, however hadn't practiced hearing it. And before she knew it, stopped fully in her tracks. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's time." He said.

"I told you I'd come if need help. Unless you want to do this alone." She added, hoping it wouldn't sound to him like she was trying to get out of it. Phoebe made the same proposition some years ago, and Helga kindly refused for similar reasons. Not to mention, Arnold had far fonder memories in his childhood home than she had.

"You don't have to…"

"It's fine, really. I want to help you. How are you going to get in, anyway? I mean, it's a historical landmark, so no one has messed with it, or anything, but trust me, that old house is practically booby-trapped." She said, realizing what she was implying a split-second after she said it.

"What do you mean?" Arnold asked walking next to her again.

"Uhh…" she began, nervously. "You know how these old Baltimore houses are…"

Arnold gave no answer, but looked particularly pensive for a few moments, and even confused. Helga was hoping that he was mapping out his old home in his mind, until he spoke.

"I told you…rusty, exploding bucket. Get your eggs out while you can."

"I'll worry about the eggs. And the boarding house." He said, leaning over in their matched stride to nudge her shoulder. Arnold was slowly getting used to the effect he seemed to have on her (and the effect she was having on him) and found that he liked it.

"Well, I'm pretty sure you can't just waltz right in there…" Helga stated, glad that he was momentarily distracted from her childhood antics.

"Well, I went by City Hall yesterday. The locks have all been changed, and the windows are boarded up, like you said, but I can still get in." he said, his hands in his pockets now.

"So, they _are_ just going to let you waltz in? Wait, how'd they even know you're the owner's grandson? It's not like you have some government-issued identification, remember?" she pointed out.

"No, but as you love to point out, I have a very uniquely shaped head. And when a photo of your uniquely shaped head on the front cover of the newspaper is hanging in City Hall, it's not too hard to make a small request." Arnold said, matter-of-factly.

Helga nodded in understanding. "Not too shabby, Footballface. You gonna be okay? Going back and everything?" she asked, sincerely.

Arnold took a deep breath and thought about it. The boarding house held only good memories, and if he did everything right, that would continue. He endeavored to focus on that as he thought about going back. "it's going to be hard. I know that. But, I also know exactly what I'm looking for. So, maybe that'll make it a little less painful."

"Mind if I ask what you're looking for?" Helga asked, quietly, nearing the bus stop.

"You'll see. Just do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"When we get there, if you...if you need to leave or anything, for any reason, just tell me. The Boarding House means a lot to me, but it can be kind of a...weird place, if you've never been there."

"What?" Helga asked, attempting to lighten the mood, but not the weight of his request. "You think I'm gonna be scared off by your old house? If anything is going to send me running it's your weird Footballhead and your sunny disposition."

"Whatever you say, Helga."

* * *

For the first time, in a very long time, Arnold was nervous. Four times he'd incorrectly dressed himself, and was starting to think that the annoyance was due, not to clumsiness, as he first suspected, but on real, genuine, worry on his part. His first misstep was just that, perfectly tying the only pair of non-casual shoes he owned before putting on his pants. Then came the mis-buttoning of his freshly ironed collared shirt – twice – and finally (and most embarrassingly) a moment of completely forgetting how to properly tie a tie. He stood alone in his room, in his little apartment that he shared with three other men whom he hardly knew, and despite his solitary presence in the room, he couldn't help but blush in awkwardness.

He knew Helga was on her way, driving her seldom-used car to pick him up for their night out. It would be marked by the general theme of their relationship since he returned to Hillwood: laughter and lying. Helga assured him that he would find their company for the night laughable and ridiculous, and probably leave early. As such, she told him not to worry over his clothes or hair, because, even if they tried, they would be spotted immediately as 'other', and treated as such for the whole of the evening. Arnold hardly met with people he generally didn't like, but Helga was a former spectator in the theatrics they would undoubtedly witness that evening, and he couldn't help but feel a little premeditated frustration at them, even though he wasn't entirely sure who 'them' was.

The sound of gunfire and warfare echoed outside of his door, and he wondered how his roommates managed not to receive so many complaints from their neighbors and the landlord because of their loud hobbies. Living with three other people was nothing new to Arnold. Living in San Lorenzo usually meant living with whomever was on the archeology and botany teams at the time; some, like him, were long term stays, and he found it easy to fall into the habits and hygiene of others without complaint. On the off chance an intern or student archaeologist was joining them, the task was significantly harder. To these tenants, their stay was short lived, and they usually treated Arnold's permanent dwelling as a hotel; rifling through drawers and papers, leaving personal effects around, and contributing little to keeping the space clean. Having three permanent roommates was far easier, but their closeness was sometimes hard to understand. James and Travis were brothers, twins, in fact, but almost polar opposites (except when it came to video games). At first glance, Arnold saw almost no family resemblance; James wore thick black-rimmed glasses and was rarely seen without a tie clip and eccentric socks. Travis on the other hand was constantly rambling about sports scores and his various fantasy teams, as well as somewhat useless trivia about his only other love, Star Trek. Aside from their olive complexions and coily, dark, hair, they shared very few other attributes. His third roommate, Brett, was harder to put a pin on. He spoke in single sentences at a time, sometimes less, and held an ambiguous "online" job, that allowed him to leave the apartment when he pleased, which was almost never. All in all, Arnold was not bothered much by them, but took no strong measures to make friends out of them either.

He hardly considered it before, but he wasn't sure how Helga would react to them, or how they would react to Helga. A string of girls could usually be found entering or exiting the apartment, some friends, who would share in the enthusiasm of movies or video games, and others, looking a little more disheveled at their early morning exits, hardly glanced at him before leaving. Arnold wasn't scared for Helga upon coming over; even if one of them made the mistake of treating her like the latter-mentioned girl, she could hold her own against anyone and would put them in their place without blinking an eye. That did not negate the fact that she was a pretty girl, entering an apartment inhabited entirely by men, and he tried to hurry and right himself to meet her in the living room, or even in the corridor of the apartment building, so she wouldn't have to enter at all.

Again, Arnold caught himself and stopped. Of course he thought Helga was pretty. His childhood bully she may have been, and his friend she may currently be, but these relationships did not cloud his judgement, or his eyesight. He had to tell himself, especially when the two of them were with Gerald and Phoebe, not to stare at her and try to find the Helga of his childhood in the lines of her face. When with their friends, she was completely herself; she laughed loudly, rolled her eyes constantly and refused to be embarrassed. It was hard not to be drawn in by the way one of her eyebrows (the sight of her with two was initially unusual) stayed permanently arched, giving her a playful look on her face, when she meant to be serious and a mischievous guise when something particularly evil was on her mind. These days, she smiled as easily and she scowled, and conversation with her usually led to both. There were times when Arnold could hardly believe that she made part of her living from moving gracefully around a stage, and had he not seen it himself, he might have taken it as a joke. She ate Gerald's home-baked wares in twos or threes at a time. She could shake one cocktail and stir the other, while keep conversation with a bar client and prepare her next drink without blinking an eye.

But, at other times, he'd catch her gliding her hands over Gerald and Phoebe's countertop, as if strumming a tune on the delicate strings of a harp, or find his eye drawn to the long line that her legs made when she stood on the very tips of her toes to reach something on a high shelf. Such glimpses (which he maintained were innocent, and came only from a mind unaccustomed to seeing her after such a long time) made him wonder if she glided around her own home in such a manner. She mentioned the option of their living together, though she brought it up as less of an "option" and more as "eventually mandatory".

The knock that shifted him out of his thoughts only seemed soft because of his proximity from the door and the volume at which his roommates were fighting off hordes of alien invaders. Quickly snatching the door to his bedroom open, Arnold advanced into the hallway, suddenly aware of the debris in the living room. He paused and considered cleaning, but thought better of it hoping Helga would approve of his costume and they could leave without her having to enter his apartment at all.

Whipping the door open, all such hopes were shattered.

"Check you out, Footballface! You clean up pretty good." She said, before greeting him, taking a glance up and down his figure, which left him blushing. The closest thing to dress clothes he owned was a white button down shirt, a dark blue sweater to make up for lack of dressy jacket (or any jacket; he had no need for such in the jungles of South America) and semi-clean khaki pants that he managed not to rip a hole into yet. To Arnold, none of these garments sounded much like cleaning up, but Helga smiled and he couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious. And in comparison with her current attire, he was looking downright dapper. He tried saying something nice in return, but all he could think of was that the sheen of sweat on her face made the faint freckles on her nose stand out.

"Go on and say it; I look _stunning_." She said, shrugging her one shoulder that was not carrying a large duffel bag. Her outfit consisted of black workout pants and a black cropped top, revealing a thin sliver of exposed flesh just above her navel. A faded grey sweatshirt was unzipped and looked to be a few sizes too large for her.

"Sure. Something like that." He answered, shaking his head of any thoughts of long legs or freckles or midriffs. "Let me guess: last minute audition?"

"You know it." She assured him. "I would have been late if I went all the way home. Can I change here?" she asked, already glancing over his shoulder into the apartment.

"Uh…sure." Arnold responded, moving to the side to allow Helga to enter. She seemed to look around the room without judgement and he led her to the bathroom. Before she could enter, though, he spoke again. "Let me just make sure it's…clean in there." He said, going in and closing the door partially behind him. Aside from a few stray towels and the shower curtain left askew, it was actually clean. After wiping the mirror clean, Arnold opened the bathroom door to find the hallway empty. In a moment of sudden panic, Arnold wondered where Helga could have wandered off to, and which of his roommates he might have to blame.

Turning into the living room, he found his three roommates still seated and focusing on the screen before them, and Helga standing a few feet behind. She tilted her head slightly to the right, making the bun on the top of her head lean as well.

"Why are you using a Strom Rifle?" she asked, shocking only Arnold.

"Best automatic loadout weapon, IMO." Travis answered, seemingly unaware that he was offering his opinion on a video game to a tall, pretty girl standing in his living room. None of the game's participants seemed to notice either.

"More like crappiest Covenant automatic weapon…" Helga scoffed.

"The Storm Rifle was never confirmed Covenant…" his brother answered.

"The T-55 is the evolution of the Plasma Rifle and was used during the Sangheili civil conflicts that followed the _Covenant_ War. Not to mention, yours keeps shutting itself down because _Covenant_ weapons typically overheat if used for a long period of time and will become temporarily unresponsive."

"Oh yeah," James said, finishing a long drag from his obscenely large energy drink can. "What do you suggest?"

Helga studied the screen for a moment before answering. "Definitely something Forerunner, if you can get your hands on one. They're better for disintegrating biomass." She said, simply. She seemed to finally become aware of Arnold behind her, turned, and walked quietly into the bathroom. Shutting the door behind her, Arnold contemplated the exchange he witnessed and watched as his clueless roommates finally realized the expert and clearly feminine voice behind them wasn't Arnold's.

Brett turned slowly and scanned the room, the first to speak. "Somebody here?" he asked, managing to get his question down to two words.

"Uh, yeah. My…friend." Arnold said, finding no motivation to explain his 'relationship' with Helga to them. Brett shrugged and turned back to the game.

"Hey Arnold…" Helga called from the bathroom some minutes later, causing him to jump at the sound, and a single eyebrow on the faces of each of his roommates to rise. Making his way back to the bathroom, he expected to find a closed door and Helga asking why there was a wad of dirty towels inside the bathtub. Instead, Helga stood in the hall, with her back to him, pulling her hair over one shoulder. The result was Arnold faced with the back of Helga's dress falling slightly open, revealing nothing obscene, but shocking nonetheless. Her voice eventually knocked him out of his stupor.

"Can you zip me up?" she asked, trying to look over her shoulder at him.

Without answering, Arnold stepped forward, found the zipper and managed to complete the task without his hands lingering anywhere. Not sensing his nervousness, Helga thanked him and gathered her stuffed bag, hauling it over her shoulder. Her hair was completely down now, and while not ready for any magazine covers or shampoo commercials, it hardly looked like it spent the day in a messy knot atop her head. Her dress was dark blue in color and covered in sequins. Instead of being gaudy, the dress was cut simply, falling just above her knees and hugging her form tastefully. The neckline was high and sheer, somehow leaving her collarbone exposed, but still hidden behind a gauzy, dark blue fabric.

She was about to ask him if he was ready to leave, before noticing the slight look of panic on his face. She couldn't ignore the faint flush on his face, and reached a hand out to rest on his shoulder. "Are you okay, Arnold?" she asked, concerned.

"Yeah, I just…have a headache…" Arnold stammered. He now told himself not to think about long legs, freckles, midriffs or well-rounded shoulders. Such thoughts were expressly off limits for the remainder of the evening.

"I told you we can just skip this thing. It's not like they'll notice. We _did_ get the eleventh hour invite." She replied.

"No, it's fine. We're already all dressed up." Arnold said. "How did you get changed so quickly?"

"Quick changes between numbers has become a part of my routine." Helga said. "If we're gonna do this, let's do this." She said, reaching behind her to turn off the light of the bathroom and readjust the strap of her duffle bag.

Arnold was about to ask her if she wanted him to carry it to her car, when the sight of his three roommates in the hallway startled himself and Helga equally. Each seemed to be as shocked by the sight of her and she was by the sight of them. Arnold recovered first, and hoped to break off their stares (before the urge to break off their fingers overcame him) and proceeded with simple introductions. Each merely nodded or made approving grunts, and eventually Helga stepped around them, issued a quick goodbye and left. Arnold followed, reminding himself to refer his roommates to an etiquette class or two upon his return.

Outside of the apartment door, the hallway was somewhat dimly let and Arnold followed Helga to the staircase. The elevator in the building was old and slow and it would be faster to take the stairs. It wasn't until he saw that Helga was wearing high heeled shoes that he almost changed his mind. He thought about her pirouetting around on her toes and thought that maybe she would be fine.

"Your roommates are weird, Arnold-o. Where'd you find them?" she joked.

"The newspaper. And they are. I try to avoid them."

"What was up with them, anyway?" she asked, her shoes clicking on the metal steps and echoing above them.

"Well, a pretty girl did just walk into their apartment and give them video game advice. They probably all planning on asking you out." He said.

Helga looped her arm through his. "Well, I guess it's a good thing I'm already spoken for." She said, her smile contagious.

Arnold felt his face heat again, and attempted to change the subject. "I didn't know you had a car."

Helga shrugged, released his arm and walked toward the street to enter the driver's side door. "It was Olga's." she stated simply, her pokerface perfectly intact.

"Oh." Arnold said.

"Ah ah." Helga said, waving her index finger at him over the top of the car. The sun was just starting to go down and the shadow of her finger made a long, thin line across the blue paint of the vehicle. "No sappy stuff tonight. We have a party to crash. Get in."

Instead of questioning her, Arnold followed suit and opened the passenger door. The interior was all plush fabrics and smelled faintly of some floral scent. The engine came to life and Helga pulled out of the street side parking space and made what Arnold thought was an illegal U-turn to advance down the street.

"So, your audition went well?" Arnold asked.

Helga seemed to sit up a little straighter, but drive even more erratically. "Yeah. I got the part. Well, it's not actually a part. But, it's huge and pays pretty well, so I'm excited."

"That's great. What's the part, exactly?"

"Have you ever heard of Dancing With The Stars?" Helga asked. It was always hard for her to know what parts of typical American culture Arnold was acquainted with and what parts she had to fill him in about. When he nodded, she continued. "They have something like that every year, for the past three years or so. It's a big charity ball thing for one night. They have professional dancers come in and practice for a few weeks with local 'celebrities', ya know? Like the weatherman and the radio DJ and whoever is running for mayor. I auditioned last year, but didn't get it."

"So, you're going to be dancing with the mayor at a charity ball?" Arnold asked.

"I don't know who I'm paired with just yet. I'll probably get an email or something in a few days. But I went in for my second audition today, and they said I'm in." she said, sounding proud of herself.

"That's really great, Helga. I'm happy for you." Arnold said, wanting for some reason to reach over and offer some gesture that assured her of his confidence in her, but thought better of it.

"Thanks. So, you'll come, right?" she asked, taking her eyes off the road for a moment.

"What?"

"To the charity event. I can bring a guest. Do you wanna come?" she asked earnestly. "Actually, ya know what? Don't worry about it."

"No, really. I'd like to go." Arnold said quickly.

"No, it's a lame fundraiser type thing. It's worse than the party we're going to now. You'd probably be miserable. Don't sweat it."

"I really don't mind. I'd love to take you." Arnold replied, earnestly.

"Really?" she asked. Arnold nodded in response and she smiled and continued. "Okay. Thanks."

Arnold settled into the sounds and sights of the city, trying to figure out where they were, based on his faded memories of the city he grew up in. Helga avoided the freeway, stating earlier that it would be easier and more fun to weave their way through the streets of Downtown Baltimore.

"So…" Helga began, tentatively. "Would that count as…"

"As what?"

"As, a date? Is that a date? Is this a date?" Helga asked, seemingly embarrassed that she even had to ask.

"I guess so." Arnold replied, shrugging against the soft fabric of the passenger seat. "We are all dressed up."

"Is that the typical criteria for a date?"

"You're asking the wrong guy."

"Well, if that's the case, I guess Portugal would count as our first date. I mean, if anyone asks. It just sounds better than our first date being my ex-fiancé's housewarming party." Helga said, eyeing him without turning her head, and waiting for his reaction.

"Speaking of which…" he began, oblivious to his companion's smile. "We never did practice…you know, acting like real couple."

"We don't need to practice. It's just Marc's dumb party. We'll be fine." Helga assured him.

"I don't know…"

"Well, if you hadn't accepted the dumb invitation to begin with, we wouldn't even have this problem." She reminded him.

"I still think this could be fun. That is unless you're…scared." He teased.

Helga sneered again, turning a corner sharply and ignoring the rumble of cobblestones under the car tires, continued down the narrow street. "Of course I'm not scared, Arnoldo. I dumped him!"

"Yeah, but, what about all your old friends? They might not be so easily convinced." Arnold suggested.

"That won't be a problem."

"And why not?"

"Because Marc goes through friends the same way I go through ballet tights: buy in bulk, because they'll be gone in two months. I hardly think he even speaks to any of our "friends" from when we were engaged." Helga explained, slowing down to inspect the parking garages lining one side of the street. The other side was open to the harbor, a little inlet of water kept clean by a homeowner's association of some kind. Thorough as they may be, there was still debris floating around, and Arnold was reminded of throwing rocks into the water as a kid. It was weird to think that this was now considered "waterfront property".

"That's actually kind of sad." He remarked.

"You know what's even sadder? I'm pretty sure he still has some of my old CDs! It's not stealing if I take them back, right?" she asked, turning into one of the parking garages and whipping around corners, looking for an empty space.

"Possession is nine tenths of the law, Helga."

"Well, I'm about to nine-tenths all over those CDs…"

Arnold laughed, hoping against hope that the evening wouldn't end with he and Helga getting hauled away in a police car for stealing back her old CDs. "So, I have to ask…how did Helga G. Pataki end up engaged to some snooty guy who lives in Harbor West?"

"East. Harbor East." She corrected, turning into an empty parking spot, her screeching tires echoing in the otherwise quiet space. "And, I don't know. I just did. Haven't you ever dated someone, and halfway through the relationship, you don't even know how you got there?"

Arnold tried to ignore the odd feeling in his stomach from Helga's question. "Of course I have, but I've never gotten engaged to them." he said. 'Not for lack of trying, though…' he admitted to himself.

Helga shrugged and continued. "If you must know, we met at a rich, snooty charity auction a few years ago."

" _You_? At a rich, snooty charity event? _Never_ …" he teased, and Helga responded by smacking his arm. "You go to a lot of those, I take it."

"I was the _bartender_."

"Of course you were, Helga."

"Anyway, the event ended, I was rightfully pissed, because rich people are terrible tippers, and so top it off, I had to stay after to clean up. Not a good night for me. I was taking out the trash when I happened to overhear-"

"You were eavesdropping?"

" _Overhearing_. Marc and his dad were talking about needing to find a more discreet…facility to treat Marc's little sister's chronic exhaustion." She said, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

"Exhaustion?" Arnold asked, trying to follow the story.

"You know…" Helga said, nudging him. "Like when an actress or whatever has to go to rehab for 'exhaustion'? _Debutante_ exhaustion, if you will?" she urged, her brow still in motion.

Arnold shook his head. "I'm still not following."

Helga rolled her eyes and shut the engine off. "Marc's sister, Kelsey is an addict. She's been in and out of rehab facilities up and down the east coast and since discretion is apparently more important than recovery, Marc's dad was absolutely frantic to find someplace for her. Quickly."

Arnold was silent for a moment. "And you…helped?" The pair had spoken of Helga's mom on only one occasion, and it was no more detailed than asking how she was doing, a question not meant to broach her sobriety, only her general health.

"Well, when your mom manages to escape, coerce and/or lie her way out of half a dozen rehab facilities in less than ten years, you kind of start to figure out the game. I just gave him the name and number of a place in West Virginia. No big deal." She said, simply.

"Is his sister still there…" Arnold began asking, before stopping himself. "Nevermind, that was a weird question-"

"No." Helga said, sounding upset. "Marc's family…they think the best way to extinguish a fire – any fire – is to smother it. She was getting the help she needed; she was getting better, but they just kept throwing money at her. Like that would show her that they still loved her. But, that's not how money works. Money is power. And if you have enough money, you can get whatever you want. And she knew what she wanted."

"I'm sorry." Arnold offered, this time, reaching across the gear shift to hold her hand. Helga immediately froze, but settled into the feeling. The parking lot was cold in the evening shade, but his hand was warm, she noted.

"It's fine." Helga said, shaking her head. "I mean, I feel bad for them, but what are you gonna do? People are people."

"I mean, I'm sorry for you. You know what that's like, and…I'm sorry." Arnold said.

Normally, Helga found such pity repulsive. But, for some reason, Arnold's apology sounded sincere. She surmised that it was, coming from someone who probably received a lot of apologies regarding his familial situation as well.

"Thanks, Arnold. I'm fine though. I mean, sometimes it sucks. But, I figure everyone's got some baggage they're carrying around. I just have to help my mom carry hers for a while."

Arnold wrestled with raising the question. "How's she doing, if you don't mind my asking…"

"She's okay. I saw her last week - after our fun-filled evening – and, she's doing alright. She's managing one of the facilities Designated Temporary Living Quarters in Bethesda."

"What's that?" Arnold asked.

"It's a nice way of saying a 'halfway house'. Some people need a step between going home or…starting their lives over again. No one's with her right now, so she's living alone right now."

"That must mean she's recovering well." Arnold stated, hopefully.

"Eh." Helga offered, shrugging her shoulders and moving to exit the car. Swinging her legs out, she adjusted her shoes on her feet, and stepped out of the car, testing each shoe by moving her ankles in a circular motion. "She's much better at hiding it than she was when I was younger, which is a dangerous talent when you're an addict. But, being accountable for herself is good. And I keep an eye on her, in my own way."

"In your own way…?"

"I just make sure there's no…temptation to distract her." Helga said, holding her small purse in one hand and checking that the doors were locked with the other. Arnold looked at the tiny handbag for a moment, and thought again on Helga's costume. He never saw her carrying anything much smaller than a duffel bag filled with dance attire. The sparkly purse looked odd in her hands, to say the least.

"What do you mean, Helga?" he eventually asked, bluntly. She didn't seem to be shy about sharing this part of herself with him, which made him feel worse for not reciprocating the gesture. Hopefully their mission next week would solve some of that.

"If she has any contraband in her house, I find it, and get rid of it." She said, with no discernable remorse. "What? I'm trying to help."

Arnold had no experience with it, and thought better of chastising her outright. They moved away from the car and toward the nearest elevator. Once they reached the ground level, Helga consulted the now wrinkled invitation in her bag and pointed in the direction of Marc's building. The condominiums lining the street were identical in shape; all white bricked buildings with black doors and perfectly manicured "yards" roughly the size of a postage stamp. Each home was at least three levels and looked immaculately maintained. Helga curled her lip at the sight of such ostentatious buildings only a few miles from some of the poorest areas of the city.

Looking to Arnold, she could tell he was itching to dole out some of his usual do-goody advice. "You think it's a bad idea, don't you?"

"Not, exactly. I mean, I don't have any room to speak. But, I think maybe you could just talk to her about it." He suggested.

"Look, Arnold-o, this is the longest Miriam has ever been sober. And if I have to "visit" her every few weeks and wait until she goes to sleep to search her house for alcohol, I'm gonna do it. Talking to her doesn't always work. It hasn't since…the accident. It's like her brain doesn't always believe that it happened."

"I'm sorry." Arnold said. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Helga waved a hand at him "You're fine, Footballhead. Like I said, it's my baggage."

"Yeah, well, eventually it'll be our baggage."

Helga stilled at the statement. "There are some things," she began, quietly. "That I wouldn't ever ask you to carry…even if we were really married."

Arnold decided not to respond to the statement. Helga was set in her ways when it came to so many relationships; with her mom, with her friends, and trying to change her perceptions would probably exhaust him and infuriate her. And, to be honest, he couldn't blame her. Aside from their childhood friendship, she didn't have a lot of reason to trust his opinions and use them to shape her actions. Arnold knew better than to take this personally.

The street before them wasn't busy, but they stayed on the opposite side of the building designated as Marc's new home, for reasons unknown. A well-dressed man stood outside of the building and to the left, apparently in front of a parking area that they were probably supposed to take advantage of. Arnold stood still, and chalked it up his actions to nervousness on his part (walking into the lion's den, as it were) and Helga having to talk about an unusually uncomfortable subject. He was starting to rethink the idea of coming, and almost gave in to Helga's former please to abandon the notion altogether. Looking down at her empty hand, he took it and began walking across the street, pulling her along. She put up a weak fight, but followed nonetheless.

The well-dressed man was holding a shiny silver tray of champagne flutes, obscenely filled with the bubbling liquid and presented the tray to Arnold and Helga once they made it across the street. He welcomed them somewhat coldly and instructed them to wait near the door, as the party's host was personally escorting all guests into the house, giving a tour along the way. Apparently, they'd just missed the last group and had to wait outside until Marc returned. Helga rolled her eyes, and waited anyway. Of course Marc would opt to tour his guests around his new home, pointing out every collectible piece of artwork and personal gift from some dignitary, in mock humility. The closer they got to the party, the more she despised the people who would be there, and even herself, for almost resigning herself to such a life.

"We can make a run for it…no one would even know." She offered Arnold, he awkwardness of their former conversation now forgotten.

"Are you kidding?" he asked, after taking a sip from his champagne glass. "This champagne glass probably costs more than I make in a year. I don't think we can just run off with them."

Helga nodded, and took a swig herself. She was already upset that she gave into Arnold and came to the event, but did the champagne have to be so good? Silently, she cursed Marc and his excellent taste in alcohol. She wondered briefly if she gave him some pointers from her bartending experience (which he hated) and congratulated herself more than she did him. She and Arnold made small talk and momentarily discussed fake jobs to tell people when the question inevitably came up, when Arnold looked over her shoulder at the condominium building and stood up a little straighter.

"What's up?" she asked into her nearly empty champagne glass.

"Marc's coming." He said, looking down at her. "I don't think he sees us out here, though."

"I told you; I'm not nervous to see him." She repeated.

"I know, I just…don't want you to be uncomfortable." He said, standing closer to her now.

"I'll be fine. But, thanks." She said, resting her hand on his shoulder, an awkward gesture, as she was still holding her ridiculously small purse. "I'm starting to think Gerald was onto something, though."

"Yeah?" Arnold asked, nervously.

"I mean, it's no big deal. We just look like very platonic friends, right now." She laughed, reminding herself to stuff some fancy hors d'oeuvres in her mouth to counteract the strong champagne she was sure to be offered again.

"I might have an idea."

Helga furrowed her brow in an effort to look serious, but only ended up giggling. She tried to focus on Arnold's words, but knowing Marc was so close, probably walking around being generally smug, and Arnold even closer, smelling like a page of cologne in a fancy men's magazine, made her feel half lightheaded, half insane. "Okay. I'm in."

"Just follow my lead, okay?" he said, stealing a final glance at the window of Marc's condo.

"Take it away, Captain." She joked, attempting to lift her hand off of his shoulder and salute him. Her arm came to rest lazily over his shoulder again, when he suddenly snaked an arm around her back and pulled her flush to him, encasing her champagne glass between them.

Helga immediately flushed, and her senses cleared. "Arnold, what are you doing?" she whispered harshly.

"Just go with it." He said, quickly, his breath warm as it swept over her nose. From behind her, she heard the telltale sound of a door opening, and with it, the volume of a celebration rising and echoing out into the street. A voice broke out over the sound of the crowd, directed at Arnold and Helga, but neither made a motion to respond.

"I'm so glad you two could make…it…" it began, trailing off when their position became clear.

Arnold, the initiator of their pose, told himself that the pretense was simply for show. That having Helga – his friend, Helga – in his arms, on the miniscule lawn of her ex-fiancé's immaculate condominium was an act, as most of their relationship would have to be. In addition, he was convinced, wholeheartedly, that the ultimate benefit would be Helga's. If Marc was as smug as he was several days ago, he would be sure to show Helga everything she was missing by not being with him, and to spare her the trouble, Arnold merely wanted to help her beat him to the punch. He knew that, if the situation were reversed, Helga would want to help him do the same. Because they were friends. And friends help each other out. And he could defend his actions as just that: a friend helping a friend.

But Helga did not _feel_ like a friend at that moment. He knew she was, but after a car ride of awkward confessions and revealing conversation, she was starting to feel like something more. He admitted to himself earlier in the evening that Helga was most attractive in the presence of his friends. But, somehow, in the course of their short time together, he found himself met with all those appealing traits, even when they were alone. And, at such proximity, he was all too aware that he was about to kiss his smart, funny, and very, very attractive friend.

He wanted to apologize. Use the last seconds of space between them to tell her he was sorry, and that maybe this was a bad idea, and that he didn't mean to catch her completely off guard. But, the opportunity passed and it was already too late, and any semblance of a 'platonic' friendship was gone.

Above all, Arnold managed to shock himself. Because, for the whole of their evening so far, he'd told himself not to think of Helga as anything more than a close friend, and date for the evening. That he could last the night without thinking of her freckles or intoxicating laughter or long legs or deep conversations. Because, since their evening in Portugal, though cut short, he was already vaguely familiar with all such features anyway.

But, with the warm early evening air moving around them, and her even warmer breath fanning over his chin, he could not focus on her freckles or shoulders, even if he wanted to. Just his lips, meeting hers, and making their first, colossal amazing mistake of the night.

* * *

A/N: Greetings, Lovlies! I hope you liked this extra long chapter; I didn't mean for it to be so long, but I couldn't find a good place to break it up, without a ridiculous cliffhanger or something. And I hope this chapter made at least a few things clear. Portugal still has its secrets, which I love, and I hoped Helga's relationship with her mom is a little clearer. I'll be delving into that some more.

Now, you guys know me; I hate asking for reviews, but I might need them. Because ugh, I do _not_ like this chapter. I do I like _parts_ of it, but most of it is not exactly how I wanted it. I think this is one of the few times I'm trying to get Arnold's side of things, and I always write him really terribly. So let me know what you think or what needs to be improved.

In other news, there's a Spotify playlist I created for this story. Some of the songs won't make sense yet, but they're all used for inspiration for this story (Even the title is inspired by a song. Spoiler Alert: it's called **Avalanche** by **Walk The Moon**. Another song on their album, **"Talking is Hard** " was as influential to this story, called **'Portugal'** , and they're both awesome. Check them out.) I'm pretty sure you can just type in **PointyObjects** and the playlist will come up. And I will be adding more as I go along, so check in regularly. I also have a Pinterest board with story inspiration...basically everything Helga or Arnold wore in his chapter came from Pinterest. I dont know how to direct you in finding it, bu let me know and I'll send you a link, or something. Oh, and I know nothing about Halo. I got all that video game jargon from a Halo fansite, so...yeah...don't quote me on that.

Thanks guys!

PointyO


	13. Bravura

**Chapter Twelve: Bravura**

 _Bravura – (Italian) A flashy, showy and elaborate style of dance that involves a lot of elaborate steps and style to similar music; usually during a key solo._

* * *

"I'm _so_ glad you guys could make it!"

"Do you love the carpeting in here, or do you **love** the carpeting in here?! I just _love_ it!"

"Oh my goodness, Helga, your shoes are adorbs! Where did you get them?!"

"Marky, don't Arnold and Helga look so cute! You're both so cute, I could just _eat you up_!"

Upon entering Marc's ostentatious condo, Helga and Arnold were assaulted by the homeowner's coldness and his significant other's wild, unbridled enthusiasm. If she didn't know any better, Helga would think that Marc and Molly were waiting for them to arrive, pacing their 'too cute' carpeting for the moment the pair would cross the threshold of their new home. Marc insisted on a 'private tour'; every guest was walked around the interior of the property, but Helga couldn't help but feel that Marc was being especially clingy since they opened the door and welcomed them in. Helga, for one, was almost thankful for the distraction.

Arnold and Helga entered Marc's condominium with little, if any true grace. After Marc cleared his throat for the third time, Arnold and Helga parted somewhat awkwardly, and turned, trying to excuse their behavior with champagne, through peals of giddy laughter. Arnold tried to at least appear polite, and abated his laughing until after shaking Marc's hand and entering his home, which was polite by any standards, especially after he was caught kissing the man's ex-fiancée on his own front lawn during his own housewarming party. Helga, on the other hand, so punch drunk (and not just from barely eating that morning), that she merely covered her mouth with one hand and followed Arnold into the building. Molly, bouncing around from person to person was so excited to have them there that she hardly noticed. Helga guessed that she could have shown up in a monkey costume, and Molly would have offered her another glass of champagne without even blinking.

The other cause for her nervously scatter-brained state was currently holding her hand and leading her around. Were she in any other place, with any other person, Helga would have retreated to the nearest small, enclosed space, and promptly screamed her lungs out.

It had been over a year since the last time she'd kissed Arnold. And it certainly was not the first time she had (though probably the first time she'd done so without the guise of 'acting' or out of her senses). Her shock, and the frustration that followed from not being able to address it, came solely from Arnold. Had she known that Arnold would not only initiate their first act of non-platonic contact (hand-holding aside, Helga reasoned that friends do that, sometimes), but that he'd be so good at it, she would have popped a breath mint in her mouth before they stepped out of her car.

It wasn't until Marc went into detail about his great-grandmother's one-of-a-kind, handmade, Edwardian escritoire, that Helga was able to contribute anything meaningful to the conversation. The Edwardian escritoire was nothing more than a fancy old desk, given to Marc by a family member whose name he could barely recall, or something, and if he told her that her favorite musical was written on, Helga still couldn't find it in her mind to care. As such, her contribution was meager and half-hearted, at best.

"That's certainly _interesting_ …" she said, nodding and lying simultaneously, and wondering why all the champagne carriers were outside, wandering around. She felt herself falling back into a manner she tried to fight when she was dating Marc; she held her head a little higher and looked for the telltale perfectly ironed shirt of someone in the house for the sole purpose of serving drinks and food. Dating Marc, even for a short time changed her perspective on people of money, and while she tried her best not to judge, she found it very difficult. They'd been in the condo no more than twenty minutes, weaving in and out of couples and guests, and saw more than a few times someone look at her shoes and lack of adornment with slight derision.

As expected, she saw no familiar faces staring back at her, making the unspoken insults a little easier to stomach.

"Hey Marc," Helga began, rocking on her heels and silently telling herself to stop. "Do you ever talk to Rhonda?' she asked. It was her first time all evening that she addressed him directly, and his reaction made her think that it would only be the first of many.

Marc looked slightly confused at her question, and tilted his head at her. Helga surmised that he either didn't remember her, let alone the fact that, upon their first meeting, Helga pointed out that the two went to school (for a time) together. That, or he just enjoyed looking like a perplexed puppy all the time.

Without hesitation, Molly spoke up for him. "You guys _know_ Rhonda?!" she squealed, excited to have yet another thing in common with Helga. "Isn't she just the sweetest?!"

Helga smiled, as Arnold, finally distracted from the desk at the mention of their old classmate, reacted to the question, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah…the _sweetest_ ," Arnold answered, looking to Helga for confirmation.

"We invited her, but she's in Milan, and when Milan calls, you answer; am I right?" Molly asked, smiling so hard that there were creases forming on her tiny nose. Molly grinned as she took a long draw from a bright red cocktail with a large pink lily as garnish.

" _Yeah_ ," Helga said, as if she'd ever set foot in Milan. "Don't send Milan to voicemail!" she finished, trying to mimic Molly's enthusiasm. She almost couldn't blame her for being so excited. She had a wealthy boyfriend, with an immaculate condo in Harbor East, and to top it off, Helga guessed her shoe size to be no bigger than a seven. She could probably find any shoe she wanted with feet that size. Helga considered her own giant feet and fake engagement and figured if there was such a thing as a charmed life, Molly was pretty close.

In the same light, she couldn't help but wonder how Marc and Molly 'got' together (but wouldn't be caught dead playing the role of overly-interested ex-fiancée, by asking). Money in the city usually travels together, but their pairing was odd, to say the least. Helga brushed off the curiosity, seeing as her own relationship with Marc was even odder, so at least there was improvement on both sides.

"Oh Helga, you're so hilarious," Molly replied, giggling wildly, her strawberry-blonde curls shaking. "Are you guys hungry?"

Helga almost pounced on the small woman to wrap her in a hug, having neglected a traditional breakfast and lunch for handful of trail mix as she left her apartment that morning for an audition. 'Hungry' was only the beginning of the void in her stomach and she was developing a slight headache from not having eaten much that day. She managed a small smile and a nod, and almost hugged Molly when she waved over an immaculately dressed waiter.

A young man approached, his dark hair curling right above the pressed collar of his tuxedo shirt. Helga tried to apologize with her eyes, knowing that, if given the choice, this guy probably did not want to be at a pretentious party, serving up hors d'oeuvres to people who probably made his entire salary in a month.

Molly managed to lift four tiny plates, no bigger than her own hand and distribute them to the members of her small group. Helga's thanks stopped on her lips when she finally looked at her plate. Looking back at her was a slice of nondescript blue, spongey material, finished with a dollop of white topping and tiny black specks. The entire thing could be balanced on the tip of Helga's finger, and she felt her stomach do a disappointed flip at the miniscule portions offered to her.

"This looks…" she began, finishing the statement in her mind. Luckily for her, Arnold was there with the right amount of flattery needed.

" _Beautiful_ ," he finished for her. What is it?" he asked, cracking a smile, as the waiter walked away, and nudging Helga slightly in her back to make her follow suit.

Marc cleared his throat, ready with a detailed explanation. "That, is a blue potato canape, with fresh Calvisius caviar, a little sour cream, and few sprigs of tarragon…for presentation, of course," He said, perfectly comfortable with the theatrics of something as small as a hors d'oeuvre.

"Of course," Helga repeated, before, bringing the food to her mouth as gracefully as she knew how. The presentation was lost on her and Arnold, as it took less than four seconds for them to finish the delicate treat, after which silence encased the group again. This clearly did not sit well with Molly, so used to the sound of her own voice, that she didn't notice the awkwardness that rested just below the cadence of her incessant babbling. Helga tried not to look bored when met with the thought of more endless conversation with Marc and Molly, but the temptation was too great, and she found herself looking around the room. Her attention was captured, when Marc's voice cut through the ceaseless din of Molly's to ask Arnold a question.

"So, what do you do?"

Helga resisted the urge to bite her lip. 'Maybe skipping out on Phoebe and Gerald's couple lessons wasn't such a sound idea', she thought, trying to find a way to answer the question for Arnold, but without the same rudeness that punctuated Marc's interruption of his significant other. If her worry was that Arnold's mind would not be quick enough to concoct something succinct enough to satiate Marc's morbid curiosity, but detailed enough to halt any further inquiries, it was without basis.

"I was a travel writer, up until I moved back home. Now, I work with a Guest Services Agency in the city. It's very rewarding," he answered, with as much, if not more, confidence as Marc has when asking the question.

Before Helga could silently congratulate Arnold on a job well done (or at least better done than expected), she snuck a glance at Marc and found him looking slightly setback, even offended. Arnold, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm, and held Marc's gaze steadily. Helga's eyes looked between the two of them, waiting for one to look away or back down, but to no avail. Had Molly not chosen that moment to speak (Helga thought that she hadn't so much 'chosen' the moment, as she was almost always speaking, regardless of the awkwardness of the situation at hand), Arnold and Marc may have stood, staring at one another in silent dispute for centuries.

"Oh my goodness, Helga, I have to show you something amazing," she said, grabbing Helga's free hand (which was not so free, balancing an empty champagne glass and an otherwise useless handbag). When Arnold, attached to her other hand, and Marc, attached to the two of them (not by a hand, but he might as well have been) began to follow, Molly whipped around and chided the two men.

"Nuh uh, just us girlies," she sang, waving a perfectly manicured finger at the two of them.

Helga sent Arnold a look that, despite the nervousness from the front-lawn lip lock, and the alien spaceships that had taken up residency in her gut since then, clearly said " _Don't you dare leave me alone with this girl"_. Arnold, shrugged, let his grip falter and turned to make a joke to Marc, who was still watching the women leave their circle.

Helga shot Arnold the coldest look she could muster, and reluctantly allowed herself to be pulled along as she and Molly disappeared around the corner. The hallway Molly guided her down was mostly unlit, making Helga think that guests weren't encouraged to wander down this particular corridor. The soles of Helga's shoes went from walking on hardwood flooring to plush carpeting, and Helga considered kicking her shoes off to feel it under her bare toes, before remembering that this was _not_ her house.

They were definitely in a bedroom, and Helga panicked, knowing that, of all the rooms she was to be shown, this was _not_ one that she wanted to enter. _At all_.

"Uh, where are we going Molly?" she asked, anxiously, being pulled further into the large bedroom. She could not make out any features in the darkened room, aside from a large bed and two end tables on each side. She guessed that Marc had yet to decorate. Before she could consider anything else about the room, Molly whirled on her, spilling a little bit of her drink on the carpet in the process. The only light in the room came from a large wall of floor to ceiling windows, and the sun was already setting, giving Molly a faint red glow on one side of her face.

"I wanna show you my _special_ room," she said, standing close to Helga, and looking serious.

' _I am going to kill that Footballhead…_ ' Helga thought, imagining the worst as Molly continued walking. The pair came upon a door, and Molly finally released her captive long enough to throw it open and step aside.

Instead of a room filled with shadowy figures, ready to recruit her into a secret cult (as she expected) Helga was met with another large room. It was lit brightly, like a store window, and held about as many different articles of clothing as an actual store. To her left, she saw rows of perfectly folded garments, each item probably worth more than she made in a single shift, and to the left, shelves lined with shoes, coordinated by color. Ignoring the wall of mirrors across from them, Helga turned to Molly, in awe and slight trepidation and asked, "What is this place?" she didn't realize she was whispering until Molly responded, boisterously.

"It's my _Boutique_!' she squeaked, grabbing Helga's hand and drawing her further in. "Marky built it just for me; no icky boy's clothes in here!"

Despite the shrill tone of her voice, and apparent affinity for odd nicknames, Helga shrugged her shoulders and followed Molly to a vanity table in the center of the farthest wall, adorned with a lighted mirror and numerous cosmetics lining the table's edge. Molly took a seat on a plush, pink piano bench in front of the mirror and patted the other half of the seat, signaling for Helga to follow suit. Reluctantly, she did so, cursing Arnold again in her mind, for accepting the invitation.

"This is a really…nice _boutique_ , Mo-", Helga began, only for Molly interrupt, turning to her, seriously.

"I have to tell you something, Helga," Molly interrupted, resting her nearly empty glass down on the white tabletop. Molly reached to put a single index finger over Helga's mouth, as if the interruption alone was not enough to silence her. Helga dodged the finger, but not the humorless look on Molly's face.

Helga raised her eyebrows in expectation. "…okay…?" she drawled.

"I'm really, really happy you guys came," Molly told her, speaking slower than Helga guessed she ever had in her life.

Helga merely blinked at first, waiting for the thing that was so important for Molly to tell her. "Yeah, well…thank you for inviting us."

"I mean, I'm really, _really_ happy you came…" she said next, leaning in closely to Helga for the second time that evening. Helga raised her eyebrows and tried to smile, but entirely unsure of where Molly was going with her odd, partially drunken conversation starter. Instead of continuing, Molly began opening several containers before her, some emitting a tiny puff of undetermined dust, others enveloping the vanity area in a perfumed cloud. Helga sat quietly and watched Molly at her 'work', hoping a revelation of some kind was coming soon. "Marky told me about your…parting last year."

Helga couldn't decide whether to grind her teeth in frustration or find Marc and knock out all of his. Whatever he did tell Molly, it was probably for the sake of saving his own face, and while Helga could almost understand the lure of telling your current love interest a false story about how you and your former love interest broke up, she was sure that she would have to pay for whatever falsehoods he told.

Instead of answering, Helga nodded, silently encouraging her companion to go on, which she did. While Marc's version was only slightly skewed (and surprisingly honest), Helga was a little peeved that Molly had an inaccurate assessment of her character before really getting to know her. At the same time, Helga had to admit that she did the same thing to Marc. For all she knew, Arnold was being grilled by the man Helga openly referred to as "The Second Most Ridiculous Human She'd Ever Met". If Molly had anything resembling a bad impression of her, Marc was suffering the same treatment from Arnold.

"…I'm just really glad we can all be friends!" she finished, smiling widely and sweeping a brush over her cheeks.

Even though Helga had no intention of including Molly and Marc in her small cache of "friends" she nodded and agreed anyway. Before she could move the conversation to another topic, Molly turned to her, her bright, round face a mixture of shock and realization.

"I just had an amazing idea!" Molly said, her hands moving frantically. Helga was almost used to the hysterical energy that Molly exuded, probably twenty-four hours a day, and found herself unbothered by, yet another 'amazing idea'. She was grinning wildly, and her hands, began moving with direction, opening drawers and pulling out nondescript bottles and tubes.

"Molly…" Helga asked, suspicion growing in her voice. "What's your idea?"

Her only response was Molly, turning deliberately toward her, beaming somewhat wickedly.

* * *

Uncomfortable was not the word. Awkward was an understatement, but came precariously close to the stretch of eternity that Marc and Arnold spent, mostly alone, in each other's company. Abandoned by their significant others, the two chuckled awkwardly at first, and fell swiftly into silence, dotted occasionally with queries and attempts at conversation. Sporadically, a friend or associate of Marc's would walk over, and the desperate pull for conversation would be satiated, for a time. Arnold used these occasions to observe his companion, and search for some of the qualities Helga vividly described prior to their meeting.

Marc was amiable, and possessed a surface likeability to everyone he met. He could discuss a myriad of topics with ease, and had an opinion about nearly everything. Helga warned Arnold that this was a carefully conceived tactic he'd developed after being in business with his father. It was a fragile guise he had to wear, Arnold surmised, juggling a measure of "interest" in a little of everything, while one's true pursuits probably went largely ignored. He was considerate to his staff, thanking them for bringing over trays of champagne and checking in dutifully on platters of tiny hors d'oeuvres. He was a gracious host, if ever there was one.

As for peculiarities, Arnold noticed a particular obliviousness to anyone who did not show up on his radar. He didn't remember Rhonda, because, he didn't _need_ to. She wasn't particularly close to Helga, either when they were engaged, or now. The two probably had few, if any true shared interests. And, while socially equal to him, her wealth came from a long line of Lloyds, whom Arnold found out later, did little if any business with Marc's parents. She was a connection when he needed one, but other than that, had little relevance to his life. Arnold couldn't help but wonder what significance, if any, he would have to Marc, if not for Helga.

That, he noticed was another quirk, one that he had more trouble dissecting. Probably because it gave him a tight, uncomfortable feeling in his chest, that he couldn't identify. Marc was polite, escorting he and Helga around the condo, pointing out an antique this or a vintage that. But the recipient of most of his genteel manners was undoubtedly Helga. Or at least, more than himself. Arnold felt snubbed at first, that most of the tour was directed at Helga, but quickly caught on to the game. In an effort to appear improved since their parting, Marc endeavored to come off as someone who had 'bettered' himself since then. The result however, was an aloof Helga, a blind Molly, and a slightly jealous Arnold.

Even Arnold had to admit, it was a little more than just 'slight' jealousy.

In response to Marc's feeble attempts (which no doubt either bored Helga or went completely over her head), Arnold made the executive decision to escalate his theatrics as well. When Marc felt it necessary to show them the first floor powder room (and explain in detail why it was necessary to have a first floor powder room), he made the mistake of asking Helga her opinion on the color of the walls. Her response was a brief shrug, and Arnold's was to place a hand on that same shoulder, nonchalantly.

The back and forth continued until Molly whisked Helga away, and Arnold watched with thinly veiled irritation as _Marc_ watched as Helga was pulled away.

So began the slow descent into awkward silence with Helga's ex-fiancé, at his housewarming party.

Sometime later, Arnold excused himself and asked where the nearest bathroom was (using the word instead of 'powder room' was a small victory in itself, and Arnold wondered if Helga's vindictive spirit was somehow rubbing off on him). Marc directed him, and he left the ornate living area to wander down the hallway before him. He only needed the bathroom to get away from the endless chatter around him, and the lack of chatter that Marc brought with him.

Clearly having entered the second 'powder room' in the elaborate condominium, Arnold allowed the water in the sink to pool before splashing his face with it. He was starting to think Helga was on to something, wanting to skip this boring party. While he couldn't see the evils that Helga was exposed to (to be fair, she'd seen it for a number of years, and he, only an hour or so), Arnold had to ask himself why he was there. The initial answer was that he genuinely wanted to spend more time with Helga in a way that was neither awkward, nor put an unnecessary burden on Phoebe and Gerald. Why he chose this as the excursion to do so, was now beyond him. It was clearly of no benefit to Helga in their coming, and it was only serving to make him frustrated.

Already committed to leaving the party, despite how rude it might seem, Arnold turned off the faucet and made his way to the door, ready to look for Helga. Upon entering the hallway, however, he found himself lost in somewhat of a maze, forgetting which way he'd come to get to the restroom. Each hallway seemed to lead to another, and before long, Arnold found himself unable to even find his way back to his only landmark: the bathroom.

"This condo is too big…" he muttered to himself. Looking at the bare walls around him, frustrated now from his desire to leave and his inability to do so.

"Who are you tellin'?" came a voice from a nearby room, the door left ajar. Arnold immediately went on the defensive, taking a familiar stance from an impromptu self-defense class he'd taken years ago. He almost never needed the training he received, and hoped such would be the case. In the back of his mind, he wished Helga was with him, as she was more than capable of kicking someone's butt (if the occasion called for it) without blinking an eye.

Stepping out of the shadow of the dimly lit hallway, Arnold's silent request was granted, when his escort for the evening walked toward him, clearly as lost as he was, but looking far less shaken.

"What's that look for, Footballhead? You gonna punch me, or something?" she joked, walking toward him casually. In one hand, she held her small and useless handbag, and in the other, her high heeled shoes.

Shaking his head to distract himself from his defensive stance (and the diversion created by the sight of Helga sauntering toward him in a slightly darkened hallway), Arnold chuckled before standing up straight.

"Of course not. Just trying to get out of this place…" he said, looking around.

"Yeah," Helga said, not noticing Arnold's discomfiture and continuing to walk toward him. "This place is so watery, I feel like I might drown."

"Watery?"

"It's _too big_. Like water," She said, simply. Looking to Arnold, Helga smiled, tilting her head slightly. "The word for 'water' in Tagalog is 'tubig'. So whenever something is too big, I just call it 'watery'. Like an inside joke in my head."

Arnold smiled and shrugged his shoulder, surmising that Helga expected no response from him. For the umpteenth time that evening, Arnold found himself somewhat astounded by Helga. As much as he found himself increasingly attracted to her, he could not help the slight confusion that overcame him, when in her presence enough. She spoke of the pain of her mother's treatment with the same determination of figuring out the missing ingredient in a cocktail of her own creation. Her mind was an enigma, as complicated for him to wade through as the condo they were currently trapped in. The complexities of her mind were only more startling when combined with the budding attraction between them.

"So, how'd you get lost?" she asked, sounding bored. This shouldn't have surprised Arnold, as she warned him of such an outcome as soon as he accepted the invitation.

"I was coming back from the bathroom. You?" he replied.

"Molly finally set me free and I just started wandering around. Did you take the elevator up here?" When Arnold shook his head and told her he'd taken the stairs, she continued. "This place is huge, right? I mean, who has an elevator in their condo?" Helga commented. "We should look for the kitchen." With that, she advanced down the hallway, without waiting for Arnold's approval.

Arnold followed, not sure where they were headed, but a little happier to at least have a companion. "Why should we look for the kitchen?" he asked.

"Because the kitchen is where the food is," She said, as though stating the obvious. "Still thinking this was a good idea?"

Arnold rolled his eyes, knowing Helga couldn't help rubbing it in his face that he was wrong. "I'm beginning to see the error in my logic."

"Is that what got us here? Logic?" Helga asked, looking at him over her shoulder. The look was both smoldering and playful, and did little to quell Arnold's rising anxiety. If he wanted to be alone with Helga, he was certainly getting his wish. She walked a few steps ahead of him with confidence, but there was no telling where in the house they were.

"It hasn't been that bad…" Arnold retorted, not even convincing himself.

"There you go again, looking on the bright side…"

"The champagne was good. That's something."

Helga scoffed in response. "Okay, Arnoldo. I'll level with you. If this night gets any worse, you owe me cheese fries and I promise to agree that the champagne made this evening bearable." Quickening her pace, Helga beckoned for him to follow her as she turned corner after corner.

"Sweet salvation..." He finally heard her say, catching up to his companion for the evening. Helga was standing on the threshold of a spacious, gourmet kitchen, which could probably envelop Gerald and Phoebe's entire apartment. All the appliances were bright white or stainless steel, made more dazzling by the long, wide windows that made up one wall of the room. Instead of a staff, bustling around preparing meals and pouring champagne, Helga and Arnold found an empty kitchen and a few half-covered trays that probably held delicate hors d'oeuvres at some time during the evening. The opulent room opened up at one end to a balcony, falling into a spiral staircase, accented with dark wood floors and a gleaming chandelier overhead.

Arnold seemed in awe of the room, but Helga continued in, focused only on the trays of food. Small though they were, Helga was grateful and showed as much, by stuffing as many in her mouth as she could.

"Where is everyone?" Arnold asked, standing beside her. He almost criticized her messy eating, but when he caught a whiff of the food she was ingesting, he couldn't blame her.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Helga answered. "Who cares? Have you ever had bacon wrapped scallops?"

"No."

"Well, you're about to miss your window," she said, leaning against the sparkling marble countertop and chewing loudly. Holding out one of the morsels to him, Helga smiled.

In the bright light of the kitchen, Arnold was finally able to see Helga outside of the dim lighting in the hallways they'd walked to get there. Stopping just short of her hand, he couldn't help but tilt his head to one side, and look at her with confusion.

"What? All of a sudden, you're not hungry?" she asked, not waiting for an answer before eating it herself.

"Your face…" he replied, taking one step towards her.

"Oh yeah," Helga said, touching her own cheek, and remembering what she looked like. "Just so you know, I was really mad when you let Molly drag me away back there."

Arnold balked at the turn in the conversation, but knew better than to call Helga out on it. "Well, I _was_ left alone with your ex-fiancé…not exactly how I wanted to spend the evening."

"True. Which is why I'm not mad at you _anymore_. I had to listen to Molly yammer on for hours-"

"You weren't gone that long, Hel-"

"-and she went on and on about how she's so glad that we can be friends, and there aren't any hard feelings about me and Marc, and then she started talking about this business idea she has, where you make a little cartoon of yourself and she tells you what's wrong with your face, and then sends you a baggie of makeup to fix your face. She's calling it 'Fix Your Face Monthly'. And then do you know what she did?"

"Did she try to fix your-"

"She tried to fix my face!" Helga said, turning away from Arnold to pick up a large serving spoon on the counter nearby. Holding it in front of her, she inspected her face. "Then again, I guess I don't look too crazy…"

"Helga…"

"She did this thing called 'contouring', except you're supposed to spell it with a K, for some dumb reason…"

"Helga."

"But check out my cheekbones! I could butcher a cow with these babies! Maybe Molly's onto some…thing…"

In the upside-down reflection of the serving spoon, Helga held, she noticed that, instead of a few feet away, Arnold was now standing precariously close to her. And while he was not as close as their encounter on the lawn (that she was still reeling from), the memory was too fresh to be far from either of their minds. Turning back around, with her back flush against the cold marble, Helga stood against counter behind her with both hands. She thought, for a moment, about asking Arnold the reason for his proximity, but knew that she would more than likely fear the answer.

"It is impressive, I guess, but…" Arnold began, now standing before her. While her search for a way out of the condo was anything but frantic, Helga managed to cause her hair to fall into slight disarray. As such, before he was fully aware of his action, Arnold reached forward and gently tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The motion paused Helga, standing barefoot, holding her own shoes, a glittery handbag and a serving spoon. If she were a third-party observer, instead of frozen in place by shock, she'd have laughed at the scene.

"…she covered all your freckles…" he breathed.

Helga's back was flush to the counter, preventing her from moving away, and making her question whether or not she wanted to. Her mind struggled with something to say that would come out as at least partially coherent, but before she could search her scattered mind for long, Arnold took the lead and spoke again.

"We should start looking for a way out of here," he suggested, moving away from Helga. He stepped away, and Helga, previously confused, was now certain that the heat from her face and Arnold's body warmed her small space in the massive room. She was also sure that she was starting to miss it. She tried to warn herself that this was dangerous thinking, but couldn't make the voice in her head cautious enough.

"Right," she finally replied, trying to look slightly less nervous. "I guess we can't just walk out the door…"

"Not without a distraction of some kind," Arnold said, turning away from her. A sound from over the side of the balcony and down the spiral staircase caught his attention and he moved in that direction to investigate. Helga, on the other hand moved a swift hand across her nose to smear away any remnants of Molly's handiwork.

"What's going on?" Helga asked, standing a few feet behind him. Between Arnold's brave attempts throughout the evening and, she was more than happy for a distraction.

Arnold held the shiny wood railing of the spiral staircase and peered over the edge. All of the invitees to the party (save for himself and Helga) were gathered below, holding glasses of champagne and talking loudly. Arnold watched as people clapped Marc on the back and embraced Molly excitedly. The mood of the crowd was entirely altered than when they first arrived, with most of the condo's occupants looking slightly bored and aloof. Something changed the air of the party, and Arnold and Helga missed it, in their haste to leave.

It wasn't until Molly thrust her left hand into the center of a circle of women standing around her, that Arnold drew his eyebrows back and whirled to look at Helga.

"I think this is the distraction we needed. Let's go," he said, hastily.

"What are you talking about? What's going on down there? Someone choke on some shrimp cocktail?" Helga joked, still looking to bring levity into her exchange with Arnold. He, on the other hand seemed more ready to go than she.

Arnold walked toward her again, seriousness in his stride.

"We're not at your ex-fiancé's housewarming party anymore."

Helga tilted her head, and almost made another joke, before Arnold interrupted her.

"This is an _engagement_ party. Marc just proposed."

* * *

A/N: Pointy O is so bad, but it's so much fun. Hope you guys liked this chapter. Sorry about the long delay. Hopefully it won't happen again. And did you guys notice? I have fanart! The cover is by the ever awesome Arnold's Love, who is so sweet, she's likely to give me a cavity. Thank you, my dear!

Notes for this chapter: My husband and I totally call large things "watery". It's such fun. And the nod to Rhonda is just the first dose of the "old gang" for now. I have a character I really want to add, and I'm figuring it out as we speak. I hope it works out.

It's that time again, you guys! Fanfiction Recommendation Time! I am almost completely obsessed with the story 'Ever After' by Mouse9. It's ridiculously cool and original and if you don't read it, you're missing out. And if you follow 'Hey Arnold - Save TJM' Facebook Group, then you've probably already seen me gush about it, but, whatever, I'm gushing some more. I'm like a geyser of gush. Go read it. It's Awesomesauce PajamaPants. You will not regret it.

That's all from me; let me know what you thought about this little chapter. Love you guys!

-Pointy Objects


	14. Straight Up

**Chapter Thirteen: Straight Up**

 **Straight Up** : _adj_. Describing a drink that is served cold, even shaken or stirred with ice, then strained in an empty stemmed glass; any chilled spirit served without the addition of ice, water or juice.

* * *

Advancing down the hallway, Phoebe, stretched her arms over her head and listened for the telltale cracking of her shoulders and back. She knew better than to do this in Gerald's presence, as anything but a knuckle crack usually sent her husband into a wave of shivers. Even though she already volunteered to bathe and put to bed their young son, she didn't want to take any chances altering his mood for the worse.

She entered their living room and found Gerald in his usual spot, leaned back on their white couch and watching T.V. She wanted to ask him to clear the table of the remaining dishes from dinner, but she already had a request on her mind, and didn't want to ask for too much. Besides, the petition she had to make of him was weightier and needed more finesse than washing a few dirty dishes.

"He's already asleep?" Gerald asked, moving his hand to Phoebe's thigh as she sat down next to him.

"I've been putting a little lavender in his bath water, lately. Seems to be helping," Phoebe answered, moving to sit closer to him. Her head found his broad shoulder, and she almost abandoned her inquiry for just enjoying the moment. 'Maybe it could wait for tomorrow…' she mused, quietly.

Gerald chuckled, but didn't move. "You're such a hippie," he remarked.

"You're one to talk; what was that secret ingredient in the meatloaf tonight?"

"Quinoa is high in iron and lysine and contains almost twice as much fiber as most grains. Don't fault me for trying to look out for your and Levi's health," he said, feigning offense.

Phoebe patted the hand on her thigh and rested it there, pretending to offer comfort. She focused on the television as well, allowing it to be the only sound in the room for a few moments. When a commercial came on, somewhat louder than the program they'd been watching, she reached for the remote and turned the volume down.

"So, I got a funny email today…" she began, resuming her place on the couch.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Phoebe said, trying to ignore the nervous turn of her stomach. "It was…it was from work."

Gerald paused, thinking. "Your old job emailed you?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"Yeah; you know they always have a company picnic around this time of the year," she offered, trying to keep her hands away from her own ears. Gerald could always tell when she was nervous or lying, because her hand would shoot straight into her hair, distracted by her ear. It was a nervous habit she couldn't quite shake. "I guess I'm still in the company directory."

"That's pretty cool," Gerald commented, patting his wife's thigh, and getting up from the couch. Phoebe turned in her seat and watched him advance into the kitchen, pulling dishes from the island and pacing them into the sink. She thought about joining him, but thought better of it. "Do you wanna go?" he asked, turning on the water in the sink.

Phoebe pretended to think on it for a second, even though she'd been thinking on it for the past three days. "Sure," she replied, trying to mimic Helga's nonchalant cadence. "I mean, if you want."

Gerald, shrugged, and began moving a sponge in a circular motion over a plate. "Sounds good to me. Your old bosses throw a good party; you know I'm not going to turn down free food. Besides, they haven't seen Levi since you had him."

Phoebe nodded, secretly ecstatic that Gerald was unknowingly following her line of thinking. "That's right. Two years sure did fly by…" Gerald nodded in assent, but focused on the task at hand. "But, you know everyone is going to ask the same thing…"

"What's that?"

"When I'm coming back." Phoebe took a deep breath, and peered at Gerald from the corner of her eye. Instead of her ear, she intercepted the anxious movement, and scratched her cheek instead. She strategically used "when" and not "if"; knowing her coworkers and their occasional lack of tact, and her own desires.

Gerald paused in his cleaning and looked up at his wife. "I never thought of that. Do you want to go back?"

Phoebe pursed her lips and looked around the room, trying to mimic Helga's way of looking as though old news was new to her. Of course she'd thought about it before…but there was no need for Gerald to know that. "I suppose I wouldn't mind," Phoebe admitted. "I did enjoy my work. And I liked having some of my studies published. But, I love being home with Levi. What do you think?"

By now, Gerald had shut off the running water, and was leaning on the counter, a hand cupping his face and his index finger tapping his nose rhythmically. "We'd have to hire someone to look after him while we're at work. That can get pretty expensive…"

"Maybe I could just go back part-time for now. He could be with me in the mornings, and we'd only need someone to stay with him for a few hours before you get home in the evenings," Phoebe suggested, trying not to sound so eager.

"That could work," Gerald said, clearly still thinking. "I just don't want you to be too stressed out."

Phoebe waved her hand at her husband and got up from the couch to stand next to him. She was too excited with the agreement they reached to stay seated. "I'll be just fine. You know me. I _like_ having a full plate."

"Running after _one_ kid isn't a full enough plate?" Gerald asked, snaking his hands around his petite wife. "Because I know a very simple remedy for that…"

"Oh, cut that out…"

"I mean it. Our moms are always saying that Levi needs a playmate…"

"So, we'll buy him a puppy; you know what I mean," Phoebe told him, trying to fight the giggle that rose up in her throat. Instead of pulling away to finish their otherwise serious conversation, she allowed Gerald to embrace her, and held him in response. "I like staying busy. And this way you won't have to work so hard to take care of us."

Gerald pulled his upper body back to look his wife in the eye. "I'm never gonna complain about taking care of you two. It's never a burden."

"I know, but I don't mind taking some of the load off of your shoulders," she replied.

"Thanks, babe. I know we don't have much now, but someday, we'll get there."

Phoebe furrowed her brow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Gerald began, moving his hands from Phoebe's hips to her arms, moving them over her shoulders as if trying to warm her. "I know what it's like. To watch your parents stress out over the electricity bill. Or having to save up for new shoes. And I know –I mean, don't take this the wrong way- that you didn't. Sometimes, I just worry that…"

"That what?"

"…that you… _downgraded_ , when you married me," Gerald said, sadly.

As shocked as she was, Phoebe resisted the urge to cover her mouth at Gerald's revelation. Instead, her tiny hands reached to hold his face, both comforting him and forcing him to look at her. "Oh honey," she said quietly, shaking her head and trying to smile through the emerging tears in her eyes. "Of course not. I would never even think that. I don't want you to feel that way, okay? I love you. We have a beautiful home; our family is healthy…wat more could I want?"

"I know, but…growing up you had a dojo in your house. And a Jacuzzi tub. And a fencing room."

"The fencing room actually doubled as a dojo," she said, laughing. "You think I want all that stuff again?"

"I think I want to give you all that stuff. Or at least have the means to," he answered.

"I don't need it. I have everything I need right here. I have a husband who loves me and our son, and I couldn't ask for anything better," Phoebe said, her mind made up on the matter.

"Not even a Jacuzzi tub?" Gerald joked.

"Especially not a Jacuzzi tub. Could you imagine cleaning out a Jacuzzi tub every night after Levi's bath?" Instead of an answer, Phoebe found herself again enveloped in the arms of her best friend and partner. If she had to assure her husband that he was a good provider for their family, just to get her way, she was more than happy to. "Do you know what the best part is, about having you as my husband?"

"That I'm the sexiest man you know, or ever will know, and that I put Idris Elba to shame?" he answered, still holding her.

"That…and you can cook…" Phoebe said, before her husband went from holding her tenderly, to attempting to tickle her mercilessly. Being twice her size, and knowing she wouldn't scream (so as not to wake up their son), Gerald took advantage of his position, and pressed his deft fingers into Phoebe's soft belly.

"Oh, I see how it is," he said, against Phoebe's muted pleas for surrender. "You're just using me for my devilish good looks and my culinary prowess, Mrs. Johanssen?"

Phoebe backed away, and held her assaulted sides. "I have to! If it weren't for you, our poor family would starve!"

"You always underestimate yourself. Your cooking is delicious."

Phoebe looked at Gerald, cocking her head to one side. "Remember that time I made Orange Chicken in the slow cooker?"

Gerald couldn't help but frown slightly, but caught himself and smiled instead. "That was…good…"

"Liar. You ate _two_ bites. Admit it; I'm hopeless."

"Just at making Orange Chicken," he told her. "I'm sorry, baby. I really ried to like it, but it was pretty terrible."

"See! We'd be lost without you. Don't undervalue yourself, Phoebe told him.

Phoebe let herself get pulled into another tight embrace. "I love you, woman. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do. Love you too."

* * *

"What kind of house doesn't have a back door?!' Helga asked, her and Arnold having returned to the kitchen, after finding no adequate second-story exit in the condo. "Looks like we have to bite the bullet and get downstairs the hard way…"

"How about, I offer our congratulations to Marc and Molly, and you won't have to say anything?" Arnold suggested.

Helga curled her lip and looked at him. "You think I meant going down _there_?" she asked.

"Yeah; you said it yourself, there's no back door."

"But, there are _windows_ …" Helga said, as if stating the obvious.

"We are not jumping out of a window! We'll look like criminals!" Arnold replied.

"You're right…" she said, tapping her chin.

"Thank you-"

"All I need is to break a toe right after my audition."

"What about _me_?!"

Helga huffed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, you'd be fine. Don't act like you haven't been swinging around on vines for the past ten years."

" _Eight_. And no, I haven't been swinging on vines, for your information."

"My mistake….so, that's a 'no' to the window?" Helga asked again. Arnold shot her a look that answered the question for her. "Fine, but don't you dare leave me alone with Molly again, or she'll have to fix _your_ face." Helga said, turning away from Arnold and returning her shoes to her feet. With less to carry, Helga began piling a small plate with the remainder of the hors d'oeuvres that the platter offered.

"Are you all set over there?" Arnold asked, sarcastically.

"Yup. I guess it's a good thing we didn't take the window; I would have dropped all this food, and that would be wasteful…" she told him, finally turning back to face him.

Arnold raised an eyebrow at her eating habits, even though they no longer surprised him. "You're so eager to leave, you'd actually jump out of a window?" he asked, leaning against the elaborate doorway.

"I've been eager to leave from the moment we walked in," Helga deadpanned. "This is some good prosciutto, though," she finished, pulling each finger into her mouth and smacking loudly.

After a long pause, Arnold spoke. "It's nice to see that your surroundings haven't altered your manners, Pataki."

Helga turned away from her plate, her eyes narrowed in Arnold's direction. "Are you trying to say that I'm somehow not as cultured or refined as any one of these froofy, 'Let's Do Brunch', stuck up debutantes?" she asked, one fist landing on her hip.

Arnold smiled. 'I'm saying exactly that."

"Good."

As nervous as they often made her, Helga found herself enjoying the pregnant pauses between herself and Arnold. Her portion of the evening was so filled with mindless chatter and forced conversation, that any pause was more than welcome. The fact that she was enjoying a more comfortable friendship with Arnold these days, was an added bonus. She tried reading Arnold's mannerisms for the entire night, but thinking about them only gave her a small headache. That, or the lack of food offered for the evening. He'd told her that he didn't want Marc to feel like he had the upper hand (even though they were in his home), but she wasn't completely convinced that all his theatrics were simply for show. The only other defense she could come up with, was that Arnold was back home, for the first time in years, and was unknowingly clinging to anything that remind him of the home of his childhood. In her case, it was more 'impromptu kissing and hand holding' than 'reminiscing'.

The pair made their way down the hallway toward the elevator (surmising that they'd make less of a noticeable entrance into the room where the other guests were huddled if they didn't walk down the spiral staircase), and traveled down, mostly in silence.

When the steel-brushed elevator doors opened, Helga and Arnold were happy to find that no one seemed to notice their entrance, making it easier to cross the long room to the front door. Looking around the room to make sure that they weren't noticed, Helga spotted a large entertainment center on the far wall, and bumped Arnold with her elbow to get his attention.

"I almost forgot about my CDs!" she said, tilting her head in the direction of the wall.

"Are they really that important to you?" Arnold asked.

Helga nodded. "Yes. I've had some of those since I was in high school. Just find Marc and distract him. No one is standing over there, so I should be fine. Who even has a huge, ostentatious sound system, anyway?"

"I used to."

"Yeah, but that was back in the 90's; Geraldo looked like Kid 'n Play, I wore crew socks, and you had a huge sound system. We all made mistakes." She said, trying to eye the entertainment center for her precious CDs. "Meet me by the front door in ten minutes."

Arnold nodded, and the two parted amidst the crowd of people. Somehow the party was packed as it hadn't been before, with les people 'touring' the building, and everyone gathered into one room. Helga was moving in the opposite direction as most of the partygoers, who were probably clamoring to get nearer to Marc and Molly.

Once Helga reached the entertainment system, and placed her plate on one of the higher tiers, attempting to look casual. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her, and in an instant, she was crouching, trying to open one of the doors to a lower compartment. The whole structure was creamy white with black handles, and would probably show dents if Helga decided to kick it in to get her property back. At once, the door gave way, and Helga was rewarded with stacks of neatly arranged CD cases. Extracting the ones that she knew to be hers, she shoved as many as she could in her small bag, moving quickly.

"Helga?"

Hearing her name from overhead, Helga stood up immediately, hiding her handbag of music behind her. The crowd still stood apart from the entertainment system where Helga stood, but she was now face to face with the last person she wanted to speak to that evening.

"Marc…hi," she said, leaning on the wood cabinet, keeping her other hand behind her back.

"What are you doing down there?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. Since the last time she'd saw him, nearly an hour or more ago, he'd changed his shirt. She couldn't remember what exactly he was wearing before, but she was certain that if he were wearing a light pink polo shirt, with a pale yellow cardigan tied around his shoulders, she'd definitely have noticed.

"Uh, you…flex cable looked like it was…coming unattached, so I…reattached it," Helga told him. She had almost no idea what she was talking about, but as long as Marc didn't become an electronics whiz over the past year, she thought she'd be fine.

"Oh, well, thank you," he replied, looking down at her and smiling. "Did you have a nice time?"

Helga couldn't help but notice that he asked if she enjoyed the party, not if she and Arnold did, omitting him from the occasion altogether. "We had a lovely time. Thank you for having us," she replied, as syrupy-sweet as she knew how. For the first time that evening, and certainly in a very long time, Helga started to remember that Marc wasn't entirely a bad guy. A little artificial and pretty tactless, but not bad. Even so, she didn't want to spend too much more time alone in his presence. She'd told Arnold to meet her in ten minutes, and that was several minutes ago. Not to mention, she was currently holding on to stolen items.

"It was no problem at all," he told her, taking a long sip from his champagne glass.

Helga was about to mention that she had to leave, but she was cut off, reminding her of a habit that she hated in Marc. He couldn't help but interrupt people.

"So, I hear you got a promotion at the Standard," Marc said, his glass still hovering over the rim of his glass.

Helga looked at him out of the corner of her eye, suspiciously. She hadn't mentioned her job at all that evening; not to Molly during her impromptu (and unsuccessful) makeover, and not to Marc directly. "How do you know that?"

Marc shrugged his sweater-clad shoulders, perfectly fine with being a man who knew more than he should. "I have a friend at the Standard. Congratulations, by the way. I'll be sure to bring up your name the next time we have a charity function to plan."

Helga narrowed her eyes, but managed to smile. "And congratulations to you too," she said.

Marc gave her a curt nod, and turned his attention back to the party at hand. Helga hoped he would walk away, but he stayed put, his eye now focused on a non-descript point on the opposite wall. Helga attempted to slink away from him, keeping her back out of sight.

"Well, we really have to head out, so-"

"Really? Okay, thanks for-"

"Everything was lovely, and you have a beautiful hom-"

"Thank you-"

"And the prosciutto was just _fantastic_ ," Helga said, quickly, finally able to finish a sentence. As much as she didn't like Marc or Molly or their big fancy new house, she was never one to deny when food was good. She just wished there was more of it.

"Thank you; I remembered you like prosciutto, so I got some from that deli in Greektown that we always went to," Marc said, seriously, lowering his voice slightly.

Helga froze. First, he knew about her promotion, now purchasing her favorite cured meats for his housewarming party? Helga wrinkled her brow, and surmised that the time to leave was definitely _now_. Deciding that even if Marc interrupted her, she was going to make her getaway, no matter what. Helga began speaking again, knowing there wasn't much Marc could say to keep her in his home.

"Well, I have got to work tomorrow, and I'm just going to head out; so thanks again, great party-"

"It wasn't supposed to be like this…" Marc said, sadly. Helga couldn't tell if she was meant to hear it or not; his voice was low and somber against the excited din of the party.

"Oh, that's okay," Helga said, attempting to sound casual. "Parties never turn out quite how you want to, but so long as no one breaks anything and there's enough food-"

"That's not what I meant," he replied, laughing at the misunderstanding. In turn, Helga responded with an awkward laugh as well, and her eyes shot around the room for Arnold, or Molly, or anyone who was willing to add to their conversation, and in the meantime, strip the pair of anymore clumsy subjects.

"…it was supposed to be you."

Helga had just removed her miniscule plate of finger foods from the entertainment center, and was holding it as gracefully as she knew how. Had Molly not gushed incessantly about the plush, ivory carpeting only a few hours ago, she'd have dropped her beloved morsels from shock. The noise of the room grew dim behind the rapid sound of her heartbeat, and despite the knowledge that she probably resembled Levi when Gerald was taking too long pretending that his spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes is an airplane, she could do little else besides stand, alarmed and wait.

"I just always imagined doing this with you," he told her, finally looking Helga in her eyes. "Sometimes I think about if things were different, what we'd be doing now."

Helga cringed at the _'we'_ in his statement, but didn't respond verbally. There was so little food at the party, and such an abundance of liquid libations, that she suspected that Marc was only suffering from a case of "Tipsy Talking". As a bartender, she was used to it; people going on for an hour about their favorite television show, or an interesting piece of office gossip. The most popular subject for a Tipsy Talker was definitely an ex-relationship. She was, however, very unfamiliar with protocol when _she_ was the ex in question.

"You should really eat something," she said, nodding her head, and shoving the food into his empty hand. She drew back before they made any contact, and in an instant regretted that action, as it was a little to kind, especially after his confession.

"Don't you?"

"Don't I what?"

"Think about how…how we'd be-"

"No. I don't," Helga replied, looking almost sorry for her bluntness. "Sorry," she muttered aver a second of silence. She almost laughed out loud. Between herself and Arnold, silences were welcome. They usually gave her time to think, or think about how to react, or worry about how strongly she'd react. Helga always associated Marc's present with noise and activity, and as such, any quiet moment felt as though it needed to be punctuated by sound.

The voice that broke the stillness, just so happened to be high-pitched, slightly squeaking, and animated.

"Helga!" With that, Molly jettisoned from one end of the room, abandoning a group of women to launch herself at her new 'friend', and wrap her in a bone-cracking Helga. Molly's tiny arms wound themselves around Helga neck and shoulders, making it difficult for her to reciprocate the gesture. It only lasted a few seconds, but once Molly let go, Helga took a few deep breaths to steady herself. "Isn't it the most beautiful thing in whole world?!' Molly asked, extending her arm and hand mere inches from Helga's face. Once her eyes adjusted to the proximity, she had to admit, the ring was nothing short of impressive.

Surrounded by a wreath of sparkling stones, sat a huge, square-cut diamond, that nearly extended from the split of Molly's tiny ring finger to the first knuckle. As Molly continued fidgeting excitedly, the ring's many facets caught the light in the room, and out of the corner of her eyes, Helga could see tiny rainbows of light dotting her face where the reflection from Molly's ring met the light.

Almost on que, Arnold appeared to Helga's right, looking every bit a welcome addition to the small circle. Helga turned toward him, and seamlessly took his arm, hoping that if Marc didn't get the first hint, the second would be more than clear. Molly greeted Arnold excitedly, and moved her hand from Helga's face to Arnold's, and Helga followed suit, ignoring Marc.

"Isn't my Marc-aroni and Cheese the _best_?! I'm the happiest girl in the whole widest world!" she squealed, seeing Helga and Arnold arm in arm, and latching onto Marc's arm similarly, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Helga laughed at the ridiculous nickname and continued avoiding his gaze. "That is a beautiful ring, Molly. Congratulations, you guys," Helga said, looking between the two of them, trying to express genuine joy on Molly's behalf and somewhat of a warning on Marc's. She addressed them as a couple to subtly inform Marc that that was how she saw the two of them. "Are you ready…dear?' Helga asked, wanting to kick herself for falling into the Pit of Cute Nicknames, where Molly probably spent most of her free time.

"When you are," Arnold replied, smiling at her.

"Ah ah ah," Molly sang, for the second time that night. "Not before you get you…" she began, releasing Marc from her hold, and disappearing into the crowd behind her. Some seconds later, she reappeared, holding identical cloth-covered baskets, grinning like Little Red Riding Hood before she met the Wolf. "I made gifty-baskets!" she told them, thrusting them at Arnold and Helga.

"Wow, Molly, this is actually pretty cool. Thanks," Helga spoke, peeking under the cloth of her basket.

Molly waved a tiny hand at Helga and tried to look modest. "Oh, it's nothing. I did sneak a little something special in yours, _friend_ ," she whispered.

Arnold and Helga offered another round of thanks and congratulations to the couple, and after a few minutes of uneasy staring on Marc's part, and unabashed glee on the part of his intended. Standing again on the threshold of Marc and Molly's home, Helga remembered the last time they were there, and was glad for the darkness of the street, as a bright red blush extended down her neck and past her collarbone. As she was about to fan herself, Arnold offered a final "Goodbye" to their host and hostess, and promptly took ahold of Helga's hand. Convincing herself that the feeling in her gut was aching emptiness, and not nervousness, Helga gulped audibly and tried to focus on walking normally.

"Well, that was fun," Arnold said, nudging her with his shoulder. His only response from Helga was huff of breath. "And look, gifty-baskets!" he said, grinning.

"What's in yours?" Helga drawled, breathing a small sigh of relief when he released her hand to sift through his basket. She followed suit and paused under a streetlight, looking through her own gifts as well.

"A scented candle, from someplace called North Birch, sunglasses, which will probably not fit me at all, a box of fancy French macaroons, a really fluffy blanket, and some chocolate, shaped like…" he began, pulling out a cellophane wrapped bag, tied with a ribbon. "…keys. Pretty cute. What about you?"

"Looks like all the same stuff, except I got a bottle of Rosé-"

"Not fair, Pataki."

"-and, you guessed it, a bag of makeup, to fix my face!" Helga brushed the cloth covering back over the basket and rolling her eyes. "I don't know about you, but I'm _starved_."

"Sorry I made us go," Arnold told her, wrinkling his brow and taking a few long strides to catch up with her.

"It's fine. I chose to go. I could have knocked you over the head when I came over earlier. Then I would be playing Halo and eating Chinese takeout, right now," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Although, had I known how torturous this would have been, knocking you out sounds like a good idea the more I think about it."

Arnold scoffed. "Torturous? Come on, you're getting carried away. We got gift bags!"

"There you go with that sunny disposition again…."

"Or as I like to call it, 'reality'. It couldn't have been that bad...unless…"

"Unless, what?"

Arnold lifted his shoulders nonchalantly, as though he was not setting up the conversation to gauge Helga's reaction to his next statement. The brief minutes she spent out of his company with Marc did not go unnoticed, by him, and he felt the urge to broach the subject as gently as possible. "I don't know," he began. "Unless you're still in love with him."

Instead of an answer, Helga creased her brow and stared at a spot ahead of them.

"Your silence speaks volumes."

Snapping out of her reverie, Helga's eyes widened, realizing what she'd said, by saying nothing at all. "What? No. Crimeny, no. I just…I don't know…I don't think I was ever in love with him; not really."

"And you were still going to marry him?"

"I know that tone. You think I'm heartless; that I was using him, or something," Helga said, trying not to look or sound as hurt as she was, if she were right,

"No, I just…don't understand it," Arnold admitted.

"That's probably because of how you grew up. You see people together, and you automatically assume that they're bound together, by love and mutual admiration," she said.

"You say that like it's a bad thing-"

"It's not. It's…nice. It's just not always true." Seeing that she was clearly misunderstood, Helga took a dep breath, and faced Arnold. She rolled her eyes at her second confession of the night, withholding her lack of affection for her former fiance, and began again, hoping her train of thought would not further confuse Arnold. "So, there's this place in Peru, okay?"

Arnold looked on, waiting for the obvious correlation between the subject of their conversation and 'a place in Peru'. When Helga only raised her eyebrows at him, he nodded for her to continue.

"It's outside this city called Cusco and it's this walled…I don't know, building or whatever called Saksaywaman, or something-"

"Helga, I'm really not follow-"

"-and scientists have been baffled about it for decades, because this thing is old –I mean, _centuries_ old- and they can't figure out how this ancient civilization built it. And it's not even the structure that confuses them, Arnoldo, it's the _bricks_. They're not like our bricks; they're all different sizes and shapes, and some are huge, and round and, it's just crazy. But they all fit together, like they were made to be this wall. And the craziest part is, the thing that keeps these scientists and archeologists and history guys awake at night is that this thing has stood for a hundred years, with no mortar," Helga said, with a sense of wonderment in her voice. "There's no glue. Nothing to bind these huge, chunky bricks together. They just…are. It doesn't make sense, but thy just…stay together.

"I grew up with parents like that wall. If Bob and Miriam had some sort of affection, or shared interests or whatever holding them together…I just never saw it. But they fit, in their own twisted way, they just fit. And, I get it; your grandparents had love, and memories and a boarding house full of crazy people, and a lot of mushy mortar holding them together, and I'm not knocking that, because you're the product of all that mortar and mushy stuff, and that's _awesome_. I'm not like that. I'm the product of a wall, that just…fit."

Arnold stood before Helga and released a breath he didn't know that he was holding. It wasn't until then that he realized that although his childhood home was as unorthodox as humanly possible, it was tempered with genuine affection. He knew, in detail the construct of his grandparents' courtship and long lives together, and (although through the pages of a worn journal) the meeting and marriage of his parents. It never occurred to him that some people did not have such warm memories to think on. To think of himself, or anyone for that matter, as the 'product' of anything but a loving family was strange and new to him.

"Helga, I had no idea,"

She shrugged. "Of course you didn't. But, now you do. Like I said before, _baggage_."

Arnold scratched the back of his neck and managed a farced laugh. "Yeah, I guess."

"Don't look like that, Footballface. I'm sure you've got something equally cringeworthy and awkward to share with the class. Come on; out with it," Helga urged, resting her gift basket on the ground, and planting her hands on her hips.

"Like what?" he asked.

"I don't know, toilet paper on your shoe, mega-awkward date; something. Help me feel like I don't have egg on my face, right now."," she demanded.

"Well," Arnold began. "This one time…"

"Yeah…"

"I kind of…"

"…yeah…"

"I went on this date."

"Okay?"

"And I thought it was going pretty well…"

"Rookie mistake, but go on."

"And it turns out…"

"Before New Years, Arnold!"

"It turns out, I spent most of the night at her ex-fiance's housewarming party, bored out of my mind and hungry, and by the end of the evening, the housewarming party was an engagement party, and to top it off, the ex-fiance still had feelings for my date, and was _not_ subtle about it."

Arnold finished, and couldn't help but smile at Helga rolling her eyes and curling her lip. Hoping for a juicy story, he was happy to find that he could lure her into a story as well as she could, without fully embarrassing himself.

"Ugh," Helga finally grunted, picking up her basket. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to those of us in the room with full use of their senses," he answered. Helga reached the door of the parking garage a step ahead of him, and held the door open for him. Normally, chivalry would force him to insist that she enter first, but Arnold knew better than to try to apply such rules to Helga. For the entirety of their short trek to the garage, she'd walked on the outside of the sidewalk. "What did he say before I came over and saved you?' he asked, climbing the concrete stairs ahead of her.

"He said he wished things were 'different'. Can you believe that?" Helga asked, her voice echoing up the staircase.

"Sort of," Arnold answered.

"Are you kidding? That's the most slimeball thing you can do!"

Arnold whirled on Helga, and stood two steps above her. She stopped abruptly as well, and looked up sternly at him. "Helga," he began, as if beginning a lecture. "You're…funny, okay? And charming. And you have a brain, which you use for things other than putting on makeup. Don't underestimate yourself. Marc is an idiot for trying to win you back at his housewarming party, but not dumb for wanting you back."

Helga, surmised, that for the first time, in a very long time, she did not know what to say. Her initial response was something self-deprecating, a shield she wore often and well. Arnold, however seemed to disarm her without her knowledge, and she did not like feeling weaponless in front of him. Her only other tactic was to make him arm himself, even just a little, and hope he wouldn't notice how defenseless she really was.

"Why, Arnold," she started, crossing her arms. "Is that _jealousy_ I hear?'

Arnold closed the distance between them slightly and stepped down. "Jealous? What's there to be jealous of? He's a guy, just like me. Sure, his home is huge and furnished and costs more than most people in this world will ever see in their lives, and he's rich enough to give away a basket of stuff I can barely afford to buy, he just gave his fiancee a boulder-sized diamond, and, oh, that's right! He's still very much in love with my-"

Unconsciously, Arnold began his tirade making unbroken eye contact with Helga, but finished it, gesturing wildly and looking at everything but her. Had he kept his eyes on her face, he would have registered her shock far sooner, and amended his words.

"- _date_. My date. Which is what you are. Among other things. But, my date. For the evening," he said, straightening the lapels of his shirt.

Helga pursed her lips to keep from laughing. "Yeah. Of course. Your date."

"I'm not jealous," he told her firmly.

"Okay."

"I'm not."

"I know. I heard you."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Helga continued fighting the losing battle against a grin, holding her hands out in front of her, fingers splayed, as if defending herself. "I mean…I _believe_ you…"

Arnold took a page from his companion's book and rolled his eyes, continuing up the stairs. "Whatever…"

"Oh, come on, Arnold!" she called after him. "This is pretty rich! I mean… _you're_ jealous?! Over _me_?! This is awesome!"

"I don't see what's so 'awesome' about this…" he said, reaching their parking level.

Helga leapt in front of him, still smiling widely, and held Arnold in place by his shoulders. "Look, I know I told you that she's gone, and we're cool, and everything, but nine year-old Helga is high-fiving a million angels, right now! A million angels!" she said, waving both of her hands over their heads, slapping invisible hands in front of her.

"I told you, I'm not jealous."

"If I had a time machine, I would go back to that cafeteria and tell nine year old me, 'don't sacrifice a candy bar a day. Don't waste your time with Stinky Peterson. Don't get stung by a hundred angry bees. Just wait for Marc Pembrooke's Housewarming party.'"

"What does Stinky have to do with any of this?"

Helga waved her hand dismissively. "That's another story for another day. For now, let's drop off all this fancy crap, and get some grub."

"Maybe we could head back over to Mr. Pembrooke's and see if there are any more mini crabcakes left.," Arnold said, teasingly.

"Oh cut that out. Don't be moody-jealous, be fun-jealous." Helga said, unlocking the backseat of her car and unceremoniously tossing her gift basket in. Looking to Arnold to hand her his basket, so she could do the same, she instead found him swinging the covered hamper in one arm, and looking at the ground. Helga sighed and tried to apologize. "Look, I was just kidding. My bad, okay?"

"it's fine, it's just…I know you're not into all that…stuff, but, I can understand why a person would feel…safe, with Marc."

"Why, because he's got money?" Helga asked, dumbfounded.

"And a nice house, and a good job and, I don't know."

"Yeah, you do. You think money is security, and security is contentment, and contentment is happiness, right?" Without waiting for a response, she went on. "Well, you're _wrong_. See these shoes? They protect the bottom of my feet from rocks and broken glass in the street. And they have a purpose, which is having decent, dressy shoes that aren't sneakers, and making my legs look long. And, they're nice, I guess. But, I'm not _happy_ to wear them. They make my feet hurt. And I can't run in them. And the heel gets stuck in drainage grates. Money is like these shoes," she said, punctuating her words, by reaching behind her and pulling each of them off. "They're nice to have, but I don't need them."

"That seems unsanitary," Arnold said, looking down at her exposed feet. Helga fell backwards into the seat of her car, and fished out her pair of sneakers from the duffel bag she'd carried into Arnold's apartment. Sliding her feet into the worn out shoes, he could see the wave of relief come over her as she relaxed into less confining footwear.

"Shh. I'm speaking wisdom here. I mean, don't get me wrong; _things_ can be nice. Everybody likes _things_. But, things get old, and disappear, or lose their value. You can't wrap your whole world around things, so why try to make a relationship out of them? Things are overrated, anyway. I don't want a big, dumb house with no back door, or a big, ugly ring, or things, I just want -" Helga said having distracted herself with the swinging backseat door of her car, and speaking faster than her mind could reasonably keep up with.

The pause in her speech grew wider and, not missing a beat (or a chance to return the favor of embarrassment back on Helga), Arnold asked, "What do you want?"

Detecting the challenge in his tone, Helga narrowed her eyes and slammed the door. Striding up to Arnold and daring to stand close enough to meet his gaze, but far enough away that he couldn't hear her hammering heartbeat, she spoke.

"I just want…you…"

She waited until the surprise registered on his face before continuing.

"…to…buy me cheesy fries."

Arnold laughed, knowing he'd taken the bait, but amused nonetheless that Helga was still able to bait him. "Cheesy fries?" he asked.

"Yeah. They're fries, but with cheese on them. And souvlaki, if you know a place that's still open. If you buy me cheese fries, will be the mostest happiest girl in the whole widest world," she said, batting her eyelashes and sounding as syrupy sweet as possible.

The voice and mannerisms were as much a ploy as they were a distraction, but, unlike before, when Arnold was hooked before he even knew he'd ben baited, he saw the lure in advance and took it willingly.

"Whatever you say, Helga."

* * *

A/N: Hello, my loves! I know my Author's Notes have lately been a vehicle for my pity parties, but alas, behold the unthinkable: I love this chapter. As Celine Dion would say, I LURVE this chapter. It's not perfect, and I'm sure I could revise it, but I'm super happy with how this part turned out. There were parts that were muddy in my head, and some parts that were really clear, and I think I cleared out the muddy parts and I'm a little proud of myself. Hope you guys love it a little bit too.

If you get the reference from "high fiving a million angels", then we have similar Netflix tastes, and we should have a Netflix party with ice cream and popcorn and salty snacks.

I've decided that I'm no longer worrying myself over chapter lengths. they used to keep me up at night, trying to get a chapter to be "long enough", and kind of adding unnecessary words to lengthen them. But, no more! The chapter shall be what it shall be, and I just hope you guys can dig it.

let me know what you think about this chapter, please. And about Marc and Molly. Because I kind of love them, in a twisted, creation of my own warped mind, sort of way.

Drop me a line. Thanks, guys!

-Pointy_Objects


	15. Entrechat

A/N: I'm saying this now, because I get the feeling you guys might not want to speak to me by the end of this chapter. But, I love this chapter. A lot. So, yeah…don't hate me.

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen: Entrechat**

Entrechat- In Ballet, a step of beating in which the dancer jumps into the air, and rapidly crosses the legs before and behind the body. **From Italian, meaning "intertwined".**

* * *

 _Helga reminded herself for what had to be the hundredth time that evening, not to rub her full belly and lean back in her chair lazily. While far from a sophisticated dining experience where the prices outweighed the portions, the restaurant was spaciously arranged, with soft music playing overhead, and as such, was a little too fancy for such behavior. even if it was the best meal she'd in eaten in her short time in the country._

 _"Full?" came the question from the opposite end of the table, and Helga laughed in response. Full was an understatement. She could only hope that the walk back to her hotel would help loosen her garment, which was now stretching tightly against her stomach._

" _That was…delicious," she answered, attempting to sit up straight and fix her posture. "Thanks for…asking me to dinner. If I'd known the food here was so good, I'd have ventured out before."_

" _Of course," Arnold answered, moving his used fork over the white, linen tablecloth. Their dishes were already cleared away, and the conversation had barely stalled at all. "I couldn't let an old friend wander around aimlessly, eating subpar Portuguese food."_

 _Helga shrugged her shoulder. "To think, I've been eating lackluster hotel breakfasts all this time."_

 _Arnold only smiled in response and several heartbeats of silence stretched out before them. A round them, other diners moved about the room, the restaurant staff eagerly clearing tables, refilling glasses and escorting new guests to their seats. The din of the room was somewhat hushed, but in his head, Arnold found it rather loud._

 _Running into an old friend in a foreign country was a shock. He'd been away from home for so long, that the sight of something as simple as an old, brick building sent him into a wave of nostalgia. But, seeing a friend – and not just any friend, Helga – nearly rendered him speechless. He was working a school in the university town, Coimbria, and had yet to find roots in the new location. Met with the first link back to his old home, he had to admit, he latched on rather quickly. It also didn't hurt that his old friend was in the country, alone, meaning that he could pick her brain about the goings on of home without the need for a formal introduction to a significant other._

 _The evening progressed, beginning with a somewhat awkward exchange of pleasantries and complete avoidance of any subjects that might cause unhappy memories to surface. They spoke of work, Helga's visit thus far, and Arnold's students. Arnold translated parts of the menu to her, and casually alerted Helga that their waiter was flirting with her. All in all, it was one of the first enjoyable evenings he'd had since his abrupt move to Lisbon some months prior._

" _So, I have a weird question for you…" he began, abandoning his fork and scooting closer to the table. Helga raised her eyebrows and silently encouraged him to go on. "Nevermind, it's dumb."_

" _Oh, come on. I don't mind. It's the least I can do after you introduced me to the majesty that is a ham and cheese sandwich covered in gravy."_

" _It's called a 'Francesinhav', and that's not ham-"_

" _You say potato, I say tomato. What's your question?" she said, cutting him off._

 _In return, he smiled at her sharp tone and how familiar it was to him. "I've been talking to Gerald a lot lately. He sent me some pictures of him and Phoebe, and the baby." Helga smiled at the mention of her adopted family (though sometimes she was unsure of who adopted whom), but didn't interrupt. "I was kind of bummed I couldn't make it home for their wedding."_

" _It was quite the party, Arnold-o."_

" _Will you tell me about it?"_

 _Arnold watched as Helga released a breath and sat back in her chair, bringing both hands to rest on top of her head. "Well…" she began, squinting at the ceiling, trying to remember the occasion. "It was pretty traditional, which is weird, seeing Pheebs and Gerald are two of the least traditional people that I know. But, it wasn't anything unusual. He bride wore white, the groom_ wanted _to wear white, but didn't. No crazy ex-girlfriends or leaning cakes. The people made it special. Phoebe and Gerald made it special."_

" _Gerald wanted to wear white?" Arnold asked._

" _Yeah, a decision that swiftly vetoed by everyone in the wedding party, Maid of Honor, included," she answered, raising her hand._

" _I should have known…"_

" _That I'd veto? Heck yeah. I don't care what Gerald says about black people looking good in pastels, I could not let Phoebe stand next to him in head to toe white. She'd never forgive me."_

" _No; I mean, you being Phoebe's Maid of Honor…I'm not surprised."_

" _Well, there aren't many people who look good in a Grecian-style lilac bridesmaid dresses with Swarovski crystal detailing, so maybe I was just the last resort." She joked. Again, a hush enveloped the table, and Helga discerned where his thoughts were headed. "He didn't have a Best Man, ya know."_

 _Arnold looked up from the table, and his own self-pitying thoughts, shocked._

 _Helga shook her head, silently assuring him. "Nope. Jamie-O flew in from California, and was deemed 'Head groomsmen' or some such nonsense. Which is basically a fancy word for 'The Guy Who has to Keep All The Other Groomsmen Sober For At Least 24 Hours.' But, yeah, no Best Man," she told him._

" _I should have been there," Arnold began, trying to sound slightly less mournful than before._

" _But we all understood why you couldn't. No one is mad at you."_

 _Arnold thought on the matter, as he had many times in the past few years, especially when the urge to pack up his meager belongings and move returned. He too knew why Helga was trying to reassure him. He felt a twinge of guilt when he thought about his visits home, how few and far between they were, ad how many important events and occasions he missed. Instead of spending his evening sulking (and knowing that Helga would demand that he stop immediately), he pushed his bad mood away and spoke again. "So, Grecian-style lilac?"_

 _Helga seemed to follow the shift in his disposition, and smiled in return. "With Swarovski crystal detailing."_

" _So, basically, a purple toga?"_

" _Don't let Phoebe hear you say that. It was one of the few details she was very picky about."_

" _What do you mean?"_

 _Their waiter walked up to their table and inquired as to whether they'd like another glass of wine. Helga told him that she would be fine with water, and when he departed, she continued. "Phoebe just wanted to marry Gerald-o. Why, I'll never know, but that's all she wanted. No big production or fancy dress, or any of that. But, with a large family comes great responsibility, and when they converged on poor Pheebs, she hardly stood a chance. And, even if she did want one, which, I don't understand why anyone_ would _, there's so much to think about. Caterers, music…it's all a scam."_

 _Arnold thought quietly for a moment, and looked back up at his dining companion. Over the course of their dinner, Arnold found himself wondering when and how the steel-tongued Helga of his youth became the surprisingly cultured woman before him. She'd gazed at the cocktail and wine menu confidently, spoke of their friends unabashed and completed her meal in less time than it took for him to teach her to pronounce it._

 _At the same time, she was guarded about certain details in her life, in a way that warned Arnold not to broach the subject on the first occasion that they spent together in years. He found himself wanting to ask about every aspect of her life, and how it mirrored his._

" _So, what about you?"_

" _What about me?" she replied. Arnold always knew that Helga had a tough exterior to break through, and personally, enjoyed the challenge._

" _You've never thought about what your wedding would be like?"_

 _Helga seemed to jolt from the question, but recovered quickly and shrugged her shoulders again. Arnold surmised it was such a force of habit that she hardly recognized when she did it. "Of course I have. But, that shouldn't matter, right? It should be about the person you're standing next to, not the flower in their boutonnière."_

" _Yeah, but there's got to be something…I don't know, kind of fun in planning all of that." Helga rolled her eyes and moved her thick, blonde hair over her shoulder. "Okay, so let's say, you meet the perfect guy. What's your wedding like?"_

 _She took a deep breath and sat up straight again. "Let me think…" she began, tapping her finger on her chin. "I'd write my own vows, of course, with copious movie quotes throughout, I'd wear my favorite pink Chuck Taylors, and no one would be allowed to make a speech. No exceptions. And I'd want a Ronnie Matthews tribute band."_

 _Arnold nodded his head and laughed. "That sounds like it'd quite a wedding."_

" _Well, I'd be quite the bride," she quipped._

" _Be sure to send me pictures."_

 _Helga leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table before them. "If I ever find someone crazy enough to marry me, I will hand deliver your invitation."_

 _He smiled in response. "I'm going to hold you to that, Helga Pataki."_

* * *

"Did you fall asleep?" Arnold yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. He was in the presence of only one other person, and that person just so happened to, at times, have worse manners than him. Aside from himself and Helga, the small park was empty, the sloping hillside bare. The streetlight from the sidewalk nearest them provided enough light by which to accomplish their task, namely, doing nothing and avoiding going home for the evening.

"If you ask me that _one_ more time," Helga began, yawning in response and mentally cursing the contagious gesture. "I'm going to punch you."

"Can you blame me? You're lying on a blanket, with your eyes closed."

"I'm _thinking_." Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the pause in the air, and its imminent demise. "And _don't_ ask me what I'm thinking about."

"I'll tell you what I'm thinking about, if you tell me." He probed.

"You go first."

"Well, this is going to sound silly…" Arnold said, shifting next to her.

"I would expect nothing less…" Helga replied.

"Do you think fish ever get thirsty?"

Helga lifted her head, and looked at Arnold, perplexed. "That's what you've been thinking about this whole time?"

"Not the _whole_ time…", he replied. "So, what were you thinking about?"

"Oh, I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I can't think of anything else now. Your dumb question has wiped all coherent thought from the entire area. Somewhere in this park, there's a nice old lady, walking her Maltese and wondering whether or not fish get thirsty, and she has no idea why. Poor thing." Helga finished her diatribe and yawned again as Arnold sighed. Their dinner left a warm, heavy feeling in her stomach, but even so, when she suggested that they make use of a portion of Molly's ridiculous gifts, she didn't anticipate her eyes to grow heavy as well.

"Are you ready to head back…to leave?" Helga asked, amending her question, hoping that, as she kept her eyes closed while speaking, Arnold was only half-listening. She felt him sit up, and knew that he caught her slip-up.

"Why do you guys do that?" he asked, plainly.

"Do what?" Helga questioned, opening one eye to look at him.

"Gerald says he can drop me off at 'my place' after work, Phoebe asks if the roommates 'where I live' are nice. And you. You _just_ did it,'" he said, looking at her squarely. He didn't look angry, but Helga couldn't shake the nervous jolt in her gut.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, fighting the strain in her voice.

"You won't say 'home'. Why is that? I'm not allergic to the word!" he told her, raising his voice in the quiet, mostly empty space.

"It's nothing, really-"

"It is, apparently," Arnold interrupted. "Because you're all doing it."

"I just didn't want to…"

"To what?"

"I didn't want to assume anything." Helga said, finally turning her head to look at him. "I mean, can you blame me? You…haven't lived here, in years. And now, you're back, but sometimes…"

"Helga-"

"Sometimes, it's hard to know where you'd rather be," she admitted. "When I saw you in Portugal, you were happy. And now you're _here_ and you're happy. And we're all just…we don't want to pressure you, one way or the other. We all just want you to be happy."

Arnold calmed his breathing and thought on what Helga said. Unbeknownst to him, his friends were protecting their own sadnesses; the thought that he might pack up and leave again, all the while, protecting his privacy and dignity. They didn't want to pressure him one way or the other, touting the benefits of a life in his childhood town, or shame him if his preference was to leave again. He wanted to vent his frustrations, and simultaneously thank them for caring about him so much.

"The way I see it," he started, remaining seated, but shifting his weight to face Helga. "Home is where you're happy. And I'm happy, right here." He punctuated the statement, by stabbing the blanket on which they sat with his index finger.

"So, you're home, now?"

"Looks like it."

* * *

Helga kicked a loose stone from the corner of the step, before immeasurable guilt caused her to bend down, and try to shove the pebble back into place. She surmised that it'd been out of place for some time, but groped for a clear conscience in her task anyway. She was uncommonly nervous, and had been for the entire morning, struggling through chores and random tasks around her small apartment, in hopes of dispelling some of her anxious energy. Instead, one seemingly menial chore became an unbroken string of unintentional errands, all left half-completed, and making her living space a messy death trap. She began by cleaning out the space under her sink, a cabinet haphazardly installed years before she inhabited the apartment, and one that she normally avoided, due to the horrible lighting in the bathroom, and the lingering smell of mildew. Discovering a cacophony of cleaning supplies, she decided that a thorough cleaning of the entire room was necessary, and began with the bathtub. When met with a particularly stubborn stain, she surmised that nothing but good, strong bleach would remove it, and went on a search through her apartment for the bottle she bought weeks ago for a similar task. The search led her to her tiny kitchen, where the sink was overflowing with dirtied dishes. Deciding to wash them prior to the growth of something toxic, Helga started washing eagerly, until the realization struck her that wet dishes needed a place to dry, and her countertops were as dirty as her dishes had been. Locating a nearly finished roll of paper towels (which couldn't be used to dry the dishes, as they left a film on the glasses and annoying bits of fiber on everything else), Helga set to wiping the counters clean. With the countertops nearly sparkling, the grime on the inside of her microwave looked especially ghastly, and now, fresh out of paper towels, Helga settled with using her last clean towel to scrub out the inside. A search for said towel led Helga to her bedroom, where a hamper of dirty clothes was found, and immediately sorted. And before a considerable dent in the laundry could be made, it's was almost two o'clock and she was set to meet Arnold at 2:30. Bolting from her apartment, she made a single stop and was almost on time meeting him at his home. Until, she actually came upon the threshold of said home.

She told herself that it was not the fact that the former owners were somewhat recently deceased. She was one of the few of Arnold's childhood friends who still lived close enough to attend the funerals and wakes, standing awkwardly in her stiff, black dress, trying to mourn people that with whom she was only vaguely familiar, and who, even without the degeneration and decay of a disease that stripped them of much of their memories, would not be able to recognize her either. She knew that Arnold beat himself up, at least for a while, about his inability to come home in time to say goodbye personally, even though he could do nothing about the hurricane that all but destroyed both airports within seven hours of San Lorenzo. Helga did not know fully how to console him,; to assure him that his sporadic, though frequent visits to visit them when they were alive and weekly calls (when he had the means to) should ease his guilty conscience. He assured her in return that he was fine, and merely mourning in his own way, but a part of her mind knew that he might need that comfort again.

Helga's guilt, however, was borne of her few and scattered visits to the very house before which she stood, and the stark realization of how she'd entered each time. She broke in through windows and skylights. She snuck in through the attic and grappled up walls. She disguised herself as a Campfire Lass and an antiques dealer. She slept-walked onto Arnold's doorstep and fire escape, into his shower and even a full breakfast with his eccentric grandmother. She'd never entered his home as anything but a sneak or a liar, and all because she couldn't put on her big girl pants and just tell him how she felt. Her excursions were always in an effort to win back a locket. Or a book of poetry. Or a talkative parrot. Or an incriminating phone message, or a fight not to have the biggest secret of her young life come springing from her own mouth.

For a house built and maintained with love and affection, Helga couldn't point to one genuine moment she shared within the walls of the Sunset Arms Boarding House.

Swallowing her contrition, she tapped her knuckles on the door and waited. The thick layers of paint were peeling back, revealing the haphazard paint jobs that the city attempted on the old house over the last few years. The last endeavor left the door shiny and black, with uneven paint strokes and splatters of ugly marks on the stoop. Arnold told her to come on in when he called her that morning; that by the time she'd arrive, he would have been there for hours, and he promised to leave the door unlocked. Even so, Helga decided to respect his childhood home as she never had before, and knocked again.

This time, the worn brass latch gave way, and the eerie creak that accompanied it, momentarily made her shiver and question her impulse to help Arnold. She thought again about his effect on her, and surmised that she was simply spending more time than usual with someone who made it his life's mission to help everyone, all the time. A little altruism could be contagious, but this was a little much for her.

Before she could high-tail it back home and lock herself in her half-messy bathroom, she heard footsteps from upstairs and immediately jumped. Thinking on her reaction made her angry. An old house it may be, but Arnold was certainly no one to be scared of. Except when he was trying to convince someone that they were engaged. Or when he held her hand. Or when Phoebe and Gerald left them alone together for too long. Those times, he could be scary. But not now.

"That you, Helga?" she heard from through the crack in the door and up the stairs. She hoped he would come down to the lower landing and escort her upstairs to the second floor, but the lack of footsteps from overhead let her know that she would have to bite the bullet and go up herself.

Pushing on the weathered door, she called back the affirmative and nearly kicked herself at her tone. She sounded as scared as she shouldn't have been, and hoped that the Boarding House contained more steps than she remembered, affording her more time to gather her frantic thoughts and wits before she saw Arnold. The flooring throughout the boarding house was green-painted wood, and after years of disuse, the paint cracked and peeled, leaving an odd colored dust behind. The hallway directly in front of her was roped off some years ago, blocking access to the kitchen and rooms on the lower level. She tried to draw on her limited memory of the building, but couldn't remember what rooms were on the first floor. It didn't matter, much, as Arnold was clearly on the second floor, and probably waiting for her to come upstairs.

Avoiding the crumbling railing that bordered the stairs, Helga made her way up the staircase, carrying her parcel in one hand. The smell from the box tempted her for the entirety of her walk to the Sunset Arms Boarding House and the scent was even more alluring now, sharp against the faint smell of dust and mildew in the air. The climb up the stairs didn't serve its purpose in calming her nerves, but the distraction was welcome. She attempted to step lightly and touch nothing, all for fear of ruining the home she was there to honor.

Apparently her pace was lacking, as she was met with none other than Arnold, waiting at the top of the staircase for her. She felt her shoulders fall, and let the feeling of relief wash over her. Standing a few steps above her, Arnold smiled, wiping his dirty hands on a towel. He wore a red flannel shirt and jeans, both similarly stained, and Helga briefly ascertained that the rest of the hose was as dusty as the small portion she'd already seen. His smile both alarmed and disarmed her; she could not figure out why he would be happy here, in the run down home of his youth. But, she also did not want to be the person who made it fade away. If he found it in himself to smile, she would not question it.

Just was he was about to speak, she interrupted him, thrusting the box toward him. "These are for you," she told him, trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

"Uh, thanks. For coming, and for…" he started, tucking the rag into his back pocket and accepting the box from her. The brown parcel was unwrapped, and showed a darker brown hue at the bottom, as though something in it were leaking. Helga watched as Arnold wearily took it from her, and lifted the lid. "…french fries?"

"Duck fat fries. I didn't know if you'd eaten anything, and we just started serving them at the bar, so I went by and…if you hate them, that's okay, but duck fat is supposed to be really good for you, and they taste really good, but-"

"It's okay, Helga," Arnold said, taking another step down and placing his free hand on her shoulder. "I haven't eaten lunch…or anything, really. So, thanks. Even though, I don't really know what duck fat fries are." Helga was somewhat relieved to have their conversation take a turn for the less serious, even if they were still standing on the stairwell in his childhood home.

"They're just fries cooked in duck fat. It tastes better than it sounds," she finished, meekly.

"Well, thanks. Come on up," he said, turning around. "I'm just going through some boxes in the old boarders' rooms."

Helga huffed and released a breath, causing the loose tendrils of hair from her ponytail to wave and fall in front of her face. With his back turned, she ran both hands down her face, willing herself to stay calm and not say anything potentially stupid. She walked behind him lazily, looking around at the aged wood paneled walls, the slightly less worn areas of flooring where long, oval rugs probably once sat, and the myriad of cobwebs gathering in the corners. As he showed her into one of the only rooms with an accessible door, she listened half-heartedly as he told her that Phoebe and Gerald would be joining them later and how the city was able to restore electricity to the building, but not the plumbing.

Looking around at the mostly empty room, it wasn't the ancient trucks or stacks of cardboard boxes that perplexed her. The wallpaper in the room, however, was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

"Bananas?" she asked herself, not realizing the inquiry was audible.

Arnold chuckled and moved a few boxes across the wood floor to fashion a table for them. "Yeah; some of the old boarders were…eccentric, to say the least."

Helga nodded and took a seat on the floor in front of their makeshift table.

"So, what can I help you look for-"

"Not before I finish my duck fat fries," Arnold interrupted, looking over his shoulder to smile at Helga.

"Okay, I was just…I thought that's why you asked me-"

"I know. But, you also came here with food. And eating always beats talking," he told her.

Helga stopped behind him and grinned. "Touche', Footballhead."

"I learned from the best."

* * *

Several hours later found the pair surrounded by wrinkled papers, unopened envelopes and a random assortment of trinkets wrapped in old newspapers. At first, Helga found it odd to go through the belongings of Arnold's grandparents and family, and made the compromise to re-pack the boxes that Arnold emptied, after any important documents or belongings were found and set aside. It enabled her to 'help', without intruding on anything that might make Arnold uncomfortable.

Her fear was somewhat unfounded, as the only thing that seemed to make Arnold uncomfortable was silence between them. Almost immediately after their small lunch, he implored her to talk about anything, and while the task was initially daunting, after naming every drink recipe that she knew, they fell back into a familiar cadence that made the remainder of the afternoon pass quickly.

"So, by the time Gerald-o found out Pheebs was pregnant, it wasn't even a surprise, because he'd been finding pickle jars all over the apartment, anyway!" she said, pushing another box into the crowded corner of Mr. Hyunh's former apartment.

"A ham and pickle sandwich actually sounds pretty good. Maybe I should get Gerald to make a few of those instead of stopping at Slausen's," Arnold said, taping a cardboard box shut.

Helga shook her head in response. "You're weird, man."

"It's just hard to believe that my best friend is a father." he told her.

"Yeah, and a pretty good one, too. But don't tell him I said that," she warned. "This is gonna sound weird, but Phoebe is pretty lucky. He's a good guy."

"You sound almost surprised."

"I'm not; my best friend married a guy and now he's my friend too. The way I see it, everybody wins," Helga said.

"I guess that makes me pretty lucky too." Arnold suggested, walking across the room, quietly.

"Oh yeah," Helga began, wiping her dirtied hands on the front of her pants. "Why's that?"

"Your first idea-and don't take this the wrong way- was pretty bad. I mean, it would have been, if I went through with it. If I'd…married some stranger, it'd be weird, trying to see how she'd fit into our group of friends. Not to mention, it's a lot easier, seeing as you're already my friend."

Helga tried to fight the smile on her face. When she realized that "Yeah, it kind of feels like old times when I'm with you guys."

Helga busied herself with biting the nail on her thumb and drawing shapes into the layer of dust on the floor with the tip of her shoes. Being alone with Arnold was getting easier; their afternoon together was proof of that. But, there were certain subjects that reminded Helga why it took her years to get over Arnold. He could neutralize and charm her in the span of a few moments, and it usually took a few hours to come down from the contact high. Even so, it was as difficult to avoid or deny him. He'd stated it himself; they were friends, and she could use that as a mantra when their relationship began to venture into unexpected territory.

"Can I show you something?" he asked, snapping her out of her trance. Having been preoccupied with chomping on her thumbnail, Helga nodded and followed without protest. The two abandoned the room and went down the hall, Arnold at the head. He traversed the hallway with less trepidation than Helga expected, but she reminded herself that he'd been preparing himself for such a task long before he mentioned it to her, and he'd been in the boarding house for several hours before she joined him.

It wasn't until he unlocked a door and paused at the threshold, eerily similar to her own entry into his home that she looked up from the floor. Looking around him, Helga tried to ascertain the contents of the room and figure out why he stopped. Over his shoulder, she could only see a simple-looking room, with three tall windows on the rounded wall opposite to them. A modest sized bed sat on the wall to the left, flanked by a pair of mismatched nightstands. Two dusty chairs sat near the windows, the upholstery cracked and stained from lack of use. Aside from a few fibers and specks of dust catching the light from the trio of windows, it was cleaner than Helga guessed a majority of the rooms on the second floor were.

Before she could ask Arnold where they were and why, he seemed to release a breath and walk forward, scanning the room, as if looking for something. Not wanting to break the silence with a stupid question, Helga merely followed him in, and avoided touching anything. The room was spacious and organized, and to touch or move anything felt like an intrusion on her part. Besides, Helga told herself that Arnold was doing enough searching for the both of them. He was currently kneeling on the floor, groping for something under the bed. After a few moments, he pulled out a non-descript brown, wooden box, and stepped back to sit on the bed, facing the windows, and away from Helga. Helga, for her part, walked around the bed, but didn't take a seat, choosing to stand in case Arnold needed some support.

"What's that?" she asked, swallowing down her nervousness. The stillness of the room was starting to make her head spin and she hoped that conversation would ease some of the tension.

"It's a box of…my grandfather's things…" Arnold replied quietly.

Helga looked up from the box in Arnold's lap as he clicked the latch and it fell open. Looking around the room in slight horror, she took a closer look around the room. The pair of chairs by the window, the nightstands…and on one, a dust-covered school photo of Arnold, in an ornate metal frame. Ignoring the shiver running up her spine, she spoke, finally. "Are we in…is this…" she breathed, attempting to hide the shakiness in her voice.

"Yeah, this is…was, their room…" he whispered. His obvious comfort in the room outweighed her discomfort as he answered her earlier inquiry. "My grandpa liked saving odd things."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, her headache coming back full force. "Like what?"

"Well," Arnold began, smiling as he rifled through the box, moving its contents around. He was clearly delighted to share such a private portion of his home and childhood with her, and Helga was determined to show that she was worthy of the privilege. "He kept the baseball from when the home team won the Pennant, and tickets from a double feature at the Kishka…whatever that is, and…this." He said, holding up a long, thin stick.

"Let me guess, his first popsicle?" she suggested.

"Not quite. It was from a corndog. He used to go down to the river's docks all the time when he and grandma were kids."

"And he saved the stick?"

"Well, he saved the half of the corndog too, but I convinced him to get rid of it. He agreed, but only if he could keep the stick."

Helga chuckled, and immediately bit her lip. She reminded herself that she was there for Arnold, and couldn't freak out every time he wanted to talk about his family.

"Wanna see something else?" he asked, almost eagerly, extending his hand out to her.

Without hesitation, she mirrored the gesture and took the offering, bringing it to her lap before looking at what he gave her. In her hand was a worn velvet box in deep blue, with spots of wear in the corners and at the latch. Helga glanced at Arnold, silently asking him if she was meant to open it. At his nod, she pulled the clamshell box apart, ignoring the tiny squeak and peered inside.

Nestled inside the box, in a bed of the same deep blue velvet as the box, was simple ring, with a band of gold and silver. An intricate silver weaving held tiny diamonds in the shape of a delicate daisy. The focal of the piece was a small, though beautifully cut round sapphire. It was sophisticated and simple, beautiful in a way that spoke of the beauty of a bygone era. Helga knew, without being told that she was holding something of extraordinary value, that couldn't be touched by a hundred large, gaudy rings. It was breathtaking in its simplicity, and though she guessed what she was holding, she had to ask anyway.

"Is this…your grandmother's ring?" she breathed, hardly trusting herself to meet his eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile and nod.

"Wow…" Helga murmured, in awe of the tiny piece of jewelry in her hands. Her response sounded hollow and incomplete, even to herself, but little else came to her mind. Despite the forgery that was their relationship, this was _real_. She was holding Arnold's grandmother's ring, and as much as she wanted to, she couldn't imagine it on her hand. The honesty of the ring sent a shiver down her spine and she closed the box and handed it back to him quickly.

"It's really beautiful. More than beautiful, it's…it's _amazing_ ," she said, nervously, turning away from him to bite her lip and look around the room for something to distract her. _'Get a grip, Helga…_ ' she thought, rubbing her face. Walking over to the window, she looked through the black, iron bars that the city installed several years ago. They were nailed into the brick wall outside, and extended several inches out, to deter burglars and squatters from damaging the property. Deciding that she needed to leave the room, resume a somewhat normal breathing pattern and return afterwards, she spoke again. "You know, I'm pretty sure I saw a box in the hallway labeled 'Paper' or something," she started, preparing to face Arnold again after a short pep talk to herself. "So, I'm gonna go-"

Upon turning around, she saw that Arnold was no longer seated atop the bed, with an assortment of trinkets in his lap. Instead, he was seated, rather kneeling on the floor, hunched as though looking on the floor for something again. It took only a half-second for Helga's brain to register what was happening.

Nevertheless, she jumped back and brought her hands, balled into fists, to her chest, as though she'd just watched a rat scurry across the floor. Without thinking, she spoke. "What are you doing?!" she asked harshly.

"Um…well," Arnold said, struggling to keep his balance one knee. "Helga…Pataki, will you-"

"No!" she shouted, immediately covering her mouth with her hands as soon as the word escaped her mouth.

* * *

A/N: Don't kill the messenger. Or the author. Basically, don't kill anyone. It's not cool.

-PointyObjects


	16. Boomerang

**Chapter Fifteen: Boomerang**

 _Boomerang- In bartending, a specially prepared drink that is sealed and dispatched as a gift to a nearby bar, by a trusted patron._

* * *

 _Despite the voice in the back of her head, Helga rubbed her hands down the front of her striped ensemble, trying to dispel some of the building liquid on them. The hallway to her hotel was open air on one side and accented with rough stucco on the other. The night was warm and busy, with car horns, music and excited shouting carrying out across the hotel property. Notwithstanding the late hour, it seemed as though turning in early was not the norm in this part of the city._

 _She was about to run the same path over her face as she had over her dress, when Arnold turned around, smiling in opposition to her nervous expression._

" _Did you have a good time?" he asked, his voiced laced with eagerness. Helga was surprised that the deep cadence of his voice wasn't familiar to her yet. They'd spent the majority of the night in conversation._

 _Helga exhaled quickly, willing herself to focus on the voice that so easily unnerved her. "Of course", she breathed, trying to mimic his smile. She wasn't lying; the evening was more than a 'good time'; they'd stayed in the restaurant until the wait staff politely asked them to leave, and at Arnold's insistence, their walk back to her hotel was a long one. He showed her an open-air art exhibit in a nearby park and their conversations from the earlier portion of the evening continued without obstacle. "Thanks, again."_

 _Arnold slowed and walked next to her, still grinning despite the late hour. Helga's eyes were heavy as she tried to return the expression._

" _Are you okay?"_

" _Yeah…just thinking."_

" _Anything I can help you with?"_

 _Helga sighed and swung her arms next to her. "Not really, just…this was kind of random, you know? Running into you – here of all places- it kind of sucks that I might not see you again for another eight years."_

" _Who says it has to be eight years?"_

" _What are you talking about?" she asked, fighting the grin rapidly erupting on her face._

" _What are you doing tomorrow night?"_

" _You mean later today?" she joked. While the exact hour was unknown to her, she surmised that they were closer to morning than evening. Whatever the hour, her face prickled with nervousness._

" _Yeah, I guess we did burn the midnight oil a little bit," he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and cocking his head in her direction._

" _Nothing…" Helga drawled. "What are_ you _doing?" she teased._

" _Having dinner with an old friend. I think."_

" _Okay."_

" _Is that a yes?'_

" _Yes."_

* * *

"That's not what I meant! I meant… _no_. I mean… _no_."

'Nice going, Helga.' She thought, groaning inwardly. 'This is only the moment you've waited your entire life for, and when it smacks you in the face, what do you say? You say 'No'. Idiot.'

"I'm sorry," she whispered, dropping her shoulders and staring at the floor. Her head was pounding and she felt the urge to physically hold her head together. The dust that unsettled dotted the air like weightless confetti and floated between them.

Arnold slowly stood, leaning on the side of the bed for support. Once standing, he cracked a smile, but his brow remained creased. The snap of the scuffed velvet box closing was a stab to Helga's chest.

"You don't have to be sorry…I…I'm sorry," he told her, wiping a hand on the front of his legs. Dust clung to the knee of his pants where he knelt on the floor and he brushed it away quickly.

Helga saw the forced smile and mentally kicked herself for ruining the moment. All she had to say was 'yes'. She wanted to. He wanted her to. They'd spoken about it at length, and there was never a question of whether or not she would.

"No, you shouldn't be sorry, I-"

"It's fine, really-"

"No, it's not!" she said, stepping forward, boldly. Her fear was that he would leave the room, leave the house, leave the country, and she wouldn't be able to explain or decipher her scattered thoughts and feelings. The urge to do the same was currently running through her mind, as it often did in when she was under stress. Instead, she moved the loose tendrils of her hair from her face and exhaled loudly.

"…I just got freaked out…" she told him, willing herself to calm down.

Instead of backing away, as she feared, Arnold stepped forward as well, and gently placed his hands over her arms, just above her elbows. Helga fought not to melt into the innocent embrace or freeze at their closeness.

"It's okay," he assured her, moving his hands over her arms, but avoiding her nervous gaze. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Helga released a puff of air, attempting to breathe away some of her anxiety. "I'm not scared."

Arnold initially looked as though he wanted to counter her with a response. Instead of a verbal reply, his grip on her arms tightened and Helga was pulled into his firm chest in an abrupt hug. His arms were warm and strong, wrapping around her back. Shocked from the contact, Helga waited half a moment before slowly bringing her arms up to return the gesture. The expanse of Arnold's neck and shoulder was a strong lure, and Helga found herself diving in. The skin there was soft; softer than his hands, and smelled faintly of dust, sweat and his own natural musk. Helga willed herself not to brush her cheek against the hairs there.

Arnold reciprocated the small gesture, and despite his height, buried his nose in the crook of her neck. Her hold on him was genuine, but she could not shake the feeling that he was trying to comfort her as much as she was trying to comfort him. She surmised that she probably didn't look very comforting, having come apart so easily at a question they both knew the answer to.

"I'm sorry; I just…" Arnold began, his voice low and muffled against her. Before Helga could cut off his apology, h continued. "…I just miss them so much."

Helga was no stranger to offering consolation. The past year and a half taught her that she was better off assigning that responsibility to others deemed more capable of the task, and some, like her mother, were usually beyond relief anyway. Comfort did not come easy to Helga Pataki, entirely devoid of the luxury during her formative, younger years and ill-prepared to put her stale skills to use. But, Arnold, the perpetually calm, level-headed, former anchor to every storm in her life (save for one), was proving extremely difficult to comfort. His heartbreak, Helga imagined, was deeper than being in his old home for the first time in years. Having grown up with so much love and affection, Helga could only conceive what it would be like to lose almost all of that, left with only half-filled boxes and a few memories.

She tightened her hold on him and whispered back. "I know." It sounded small and hollow, but she meant it, and hoped that Arnold knew that too.

Before silence could envelop the room for much longer, a tiny voice cracked the hush of the room, followed immediately by the clearing of throat.

"Are we…interrupting something?"

The sound of her friends in the doorway made Helga fly backwards away from Arnold, and once again, she winced at her own repeated rejection of him, albeit small in comparison to her last one. The lingering embarrassment was even more intensified now, under the watchful eye of their two closest friends, and Helga felt her cheeks redden and a bead of sweat make a path down the center of her back. The pounding in her ears grew worse as Arnold stammered an explanation of sorts, caught between welcoming Phoebe and Gerald to the Boarding House and defending his previous position. At the mention of the still unrepaired plumbing, Helga's head shot up, an immediate defense in mind, though, even she had to admit, not a very good one.

"Yes! Yeah. The plumbing is…so we have to leave to use the…speaking of which I'm just gonna run to Slausen's real quick. Anyone need anything? No? Okay, bye." She said, in one breath, weaving herself between Arnold and his grandparent's furniture, Gerald and the doorway and Phoebe and the narrow hallway. Before anyone could decipher her odd proclamation, her tennis shoes made a steady and rhythmic thump down the stairs and out of the door of the boarding house.

Once outside, the urge to run – _really_ run- over took Helga, and before she knew it, she was at the corner of Vine Street, trying to catch her breath. Early evening Baltimore air was usually anything but 'fresh', but she gulped down breath after breath, as if underwater for the better part of the day. Finally getting the chance to hold her head, as she wanted to for the past three minutes, Helga almost screamed.

She'd said _no_.

She'd _ran_ away.

Her mind came to one simple and inescapable conclusion: Arnold hated her.

It only made sense. Even if she wasn't always comfortable around him, or when their easy friendship sometimes drifted into terrain that sent her into a wave of anxiety, they were friends. She kicked herself that she couldn't even act like his friend.

Helga dragged herself into Slausen's, on the chance that Phoebe actually decided to follow her, and perched herself on a red, patent leather stool at the bar. The air conditioning in the small eatery was cranked up high, and Helga sighed as the cool air reached her flushed face. The restaurant had been recently updated with shiny chrome door handles and new signage, but the charm of the 50's diner remained in the bones of the property and the clientele it attracted.

A teenaged waiter behind the counter took her order of a chocolate milkshake, and after a few minutes of self-irritation, Helga heard the bell over the door chime, signaling a new patron to the establishment. With her head down on the flawless white counter, Helga could still feel the person take a seat next to her. The waiter hadn't noticed their new guest, but Helga decided to speak first.

"I know I shouldn't have run off, but spare me the lecture, Pheebs. At least until I've finished my milkshake," Helga spoke into the crook of her arm.

"Well, she does give a pretty good lecture, but I'm sorry to tell you that you'll have to suffer through one of mine."

Helga slowly lifted her head, and sluggishly pulled herself up to an upright position. "What are you doing here, Gerald?" she asked, almost annoyed.

"Well, probably getting a milkshake. And trying to figure out why you ran out of Arnold's house like you saw the Ghost Bride, or something."

At the mention of the word 'bride", Helga's face once again dropped to the countertop, groaning and muffling her voice as she spoke.

"While I don't wish to intrude-"

"You're never intruding, Phoebe," Arnold said, interrupting. "I invited you, remember?"

"-and I thank you for your invitation. It's been…quite some time since I've been here. However, my concern is less…literal, I you will. Why, if I may be so bold as to impose myself upon your personal matters, did Helga leave so abruptly?"

Arnold released a heavy breath and fell backwards into one of the empty chairs by the window, his elbows on his knees and covered his face in his hands.

"What are you saying, Pataki?! Spit it out!" Gerald told her.

"I said 'He proposed'!" Helga replied, sitting up straight and moving her arms out in front of her over the countertop. She looked wide-eyed at Gerald, upset that he made her vocalize what would probably turn out to be the second most embarrassing moment of her life, but somewhat relieved to have someone to tell it to. His resulting stare and silence, however was starting to unnerve her. "Don't you have anything to say?"

Gerald, thought for a moment, and released a breath. "Well, _snap_ , son."

"Yeah," Helga agreed. "My thoughts exactly."

"But, what's the big deal? So, he proposed. You guys talked about this right?" Gerald asked, scoffing at her evident anxiety.

"Talking about something and _doing_ it, are very different things, Geraldo…"

Rolling his eyes, Gerald went on. "Okay, so you were _surprised_ ; it's not like you said 'no', right?"

"She said ' _no'_?!" Phoebe asked, falling into the chair next to Arnold, but leaning forward. It was shock enough that Arnold decided to propose – really propose- but Helga's response was shocking, to say the least. Of all the answers she could have given Arnold, 'no' was the last one Phoebe expected to hear.

"Yeah," Arnold began, sounding defeated. "I didn't even get to finish asking her."

Phoebe squared her shoulders and looked around the room. "I'm very sorry, Arnold, but…I find that quite difficult to believe."

"Trust me, Phoebe. I was there. Maybe it's too soon…" he said, running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. Arnold quit the gesture when he realized he was rubbing away the spot where Helga's head sat.

Phoebe was more than experienced with speaking with people in some state of distress. And if nothing else, Arnold was looking very distressed. "I can't imagine that the timing would nonplus her enough to depart so…quickly. What, if I may ask, exactly did you say?"

Arnold took another deep breath. He'd thought about what to say for such a long time, but in the heat of the moment, all coherent thoughts left him. He could have asked her to the Cheese Festival for all he knew.

"Well, she was standing over there, by that wall, and-"

Phoebe reached out and grasped Arnold's arm before he could continue. "Wait, you proposed here?! Today?!"

"That's what I said, right _there_! In his grandparents' _room_. With his grandmother's _ring_!" Helga said, gesturing wildly, and barely missing her milkshake, which still sat untouched in front of her. Gerald was more than familiar with her affinity for sugary concoctions and the fact that she was ignoring one that was staring her in the face, spoke volumes.

"Oh snap…" he responded, under his breath.

"Yeah, you mentioned that once before. What am I supposed to do? I mean, I straight up _rejected_ the guy. And then I _ran_ away. I'm such an idiot." Helga pulled her mussed hair over her face in an attempt to hide her flushed visage from Gerald.

Gerald shrugged. "Well, _that_ much is obvious." Ignoring the glare from his companion, he went on. "But, don't beat yourself up too much. I think you might have it right with this one. Mostly right. Half right."

"How?"

Gerald swiveled in his barstool to face Helga. " _Look_. Arnold is my best friend; I'll always have his back. And in his defense, he probably didn't _mean_ to freak out like he did. He can be a little…impulsive, sometimes."

"This sure didn't _feel_ like an impulse."

"What, like he planned this in advance?"

"I have no idea, Gerald!" she enunciated through clenched teeth. " _You're_ his best friend; you tell me."

"I'm not so sure about that anymore…I didn't even know he was going to propose. I do have one question, though…"

"How do you… _feel_ about Helga?" Phoebe asked cautiously. She knew that she was treading on a terribly sensitive subject. As numerous as the differences were between her best friend and the 'former' love of the young life, they had one thing in common: they were willfully ignorant about how the other felt about them. More than a few evenings were passed in the Johansson household taking bets as to when their two friends would come clean about the feelings that were obvious to anyone who interacted with them. And when they weren't wagering about the relationship of their friends, one (or both) of them could be found venting about Helga or Arnold and their apparent blindness to one another.

When Phoebe received no immediate response, (something she surmised was a good thing; thought usually revealed depth of feeling in her experience) she spoke again. "I ask because, while I'm certain that your…homecoming has been anything but unproblematic, I believe it has also been difficult for Helga as well. It's by no fault of your own, of course. She just…it took her quite a while to get over you. Or at least come to the realization that she could have a life without you. And while I'm sure her refusal stings, I truly think she's attempting to distance herself, lest she end up hurt again. Ever since the…accident, she's become more of a recluse; closing herself off from a lot of us. In a lot of different ways."

Arnold hadn't considered the result of the accident on Helga. He only heard about it secondhand, and it was mutually understood that, unless Helga brought the subject up, it was almost never to be spoken of. As such, aside from a small apology when he first returned, they never breathed a word about it.

"I would implore you, Arnold, not to take her 'no' as a firm rejection. You've won her over in more ways than you know."

"I hope you're right."

"Of _course_ I'm right!" Gerald said loudly, clapping Helga on the back. She pulled her shoulder away at the impact, and reared her fist back to strike.

"So, what? You think I should go back there and apologize?" Helga asked, skeptically.

Gerald shrugged again. "If you think you have something to apologize for. I mean, you care about him, right?"

"Of course I do." Helga replied quickly, easily forgetting that she was talking to Gerald and not Phoebe. Even so, Gerald was almost as familiar with her feelings for Arnold as Phoebe was, and he didn't seem unsettled by her comment. "I mean, he's…he's…"

"Hey, you don't have to explain it to me. I am…not at all prepared to handle that emotional three-bean casserole. Trust me; he'll be fine. I think he gets that you'd be freaked out. Just explain _why_. Let him know that you're not just another person running away from him."

"Another?" Helga asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Some other time, Pataki," he said, gently cutting off her inquiry. "Now, I believe my sage advice merits me a free cheeseburger."

Helga rolled her eyes. "Arnold said you guys were coming _here_ to get burgers for all of us."

"Then a milkshake, at least. Please? For a friend?" he said, already waving over their pimple-faced waiter. He leaned toward Helga, clasped his hands together under his stubbled chin and shot his friend a look that Phoebe affectionately named 'Big Brown Eyes', but knew the effect would fall far shorter on Helga than his wife. Nevertheless, the look accomplished part of its desired effect, as Helga pushed him away by his shoulder and covered his meal.

"Why do I even put up with you?"

"Because you're my friend, Arnold. That's what we do," Phoebe said, simply. The smile on her tiny face was kindly and reassuring. If there was any doubt as to whether or not Phoebe Hyerdahl-Johansson made an excellent Sociologist and Advocate Worker, they had only to spend a few moments in her calming presence to be convinced otherwise.

"Thank you, Phoebe. You're a really good friend." Arnold watched as Phoebe's nose wrinkled in a small smile, and she sat back contently in her chair. Bringing his hands together, and rotating his thumbs around one another, Arnold ventured to ask Phoebe a potentially awkward question. He seemed to be doing that a lot that day, and didn't see why the streak should end. "Do you…want to see the ring?" he inquired nervously. He wasn't sure why the pull to share his grandparents' home and little pieces of their lives was so strong; he gathered that it had something to do with being back in the home of his childhood, and with the people most closely associated with his life.

If Phoebe was shocked, he could not sense it as she silently nodded and held out her hand. The box was already open; he'd been messing with the hinge since Helga left the room. Instead of the shock he expected to see on her face, Phoebe's expression only softened, her smile growing telling and thoughtful, as if she knew a secret. After a few short moments, she handed the box back to him.

"It's beautiful. Even more so when she says yes."

Arnold almost sank back into his brief pessimism, wanting to admit that Phoebe's assurance was still a dimly lit hope in his own mind. Instead, the bright side, as usual, set a lure that he could not ignore. A brief image flashed in his mind, Helga, behind the bar at one of her jobs, slicing lemons and shaking cocktails, all the while, a small blue diamond catching the lowlighting of the room.

The picture sent an involuntary smile to his face. "Yeah; I agree."

"So, we're in agreement, right?" Helga asked, trying to get Gerald's attention. It'd taken a double chocolate milkshake, with a cherry on top for him to walk her back to the Boarding House.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure…" he said, between sips of his large drink.

"I mean it; don't leave me alone with him, okay?"

Gerald shook his head at Helga, who, despite being a terrifying creature (sometimes), still stood a head shorter than him. "You _gotta_ calm down, Pataki. This is Arnold. Even if he's mad at you, you've got nothing to worry about."

"Oh sure, I'll just calm down, Gerald-o. I'm only about to walk back into Arnold's house, the house where I rejected him; where he could be _hating_ me this very moment. Yeah; I'll just waltz right in there like the Sugar Plum Freakin' Fairy!"

Gerald nodded. "That's the spirit, Helga."

"Sometimes I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Whatever. I'll talk to him when I'm ready. Just…stick around for a minute." Having already said "no" to Arnold's face, without the courtesy of explaining herself, Helga was not too keen on being alone with him right away. Since his homecoming, anytime she felt too nervous around him, she had the buffer of Gerald and Phoebe to lessen the blow of her own anxiety. The problem with Gerald, and their odd friendship as a whole, was that, when he knew she needed him, he usually found a way to exploit it. He could be maddening in his overzealous need to be right (which mirrored her own) and utterly frustrating when doling out advice. At the same time, he could usually be relied on for somewhat helpful guidance. The lackluster efforts she made to put his counsel into practice was in sharp contrast to the friendship she enjoyed from both Phoebe and Gerald. It was one of the reasons why she frequented their home so often. As solid as a friendship could be, Helga always knew where to go when she was in the mood to argue, or needed help with the repercussions of an argument.

"Sure thing, buddy," he replied, smirking down at her. Upon turning the corner to Vine Street, the streetlights flickered on overhead. On the stoop of the Boarding House sat Arnold and Phoebe, their laughter echoing down the mostly deserted street. He almost pointed out to his companion that if Arnold, in the face of her rebuff could smile, she could hazard to do the same.

The approach to the stoop was slow, as every five steps or so, Helga would groan, as though in physical pain, and fall back in her stride. By the time they finally reached the doorstep, Gerald was all but pushing Helga forward. Had she not been carrying the group's drinks, she probably would have made a run for it as soon as the pair left Slausen's.

Gerald greeted Arnold and his wife, and could feel the tiny ripple of tension wash over the group, when Phoebe, previously facing away from him, turned and leaned backward slightly. The move was borne of too many nights, where one would abandon the relative peace of the living room couch to warm up a bottle, or answer the keening cries of an infant or answer the door for the takeout delivery driver. Before leaving the room, the standing individual would lean over, and leave a chaste kiss on the lips of the other. The small gesture usually ensured that one party wouldn't leave the room upset at the other.

As Gerald kissed his wife, and returned to a standing position, he noted that both of his friends took the opportunity to avert their eyes and look down opposite ends of the street. Laughing at their awkwardness, Gerald handed his wife the bag of food he carried, the contents carefully arranged so that he was handing her only their food. Arnold and Helga's meals were in the only other bag that he and Helga left the diner with.

"Well," Gerald began, looking between Arnold and Helga. "We're gonna head inside and eat." With that, he stepped in between Arnold and Phoebe, taking his wife's hand and escorted her inside.

It wasn't until the door shut behind them that Helga even realized what happened and began silently fuming and cursing Gerald's name under her breath. Her only reason to relax, was that she was probably feeling how Arnold did when she left so unexpectedly. Rocking back on her heels for a few seconds, Helga avoided any direct eye contact with Arnold.

"What's that?" he eventually asked, gesturing to the styrofoam cup in her hand.

Looking down, Helga jostled the cup before holding it out to him. "It's for you. It's a vanilla milkshake."

Arnold chuckled. "I'm glad to see that someone is committed to my health."

"What?"

"First duck fat fries, now a milkshake."

Helga shrugged and took a tentative seat on the stoop, her hip hugging the stone side of it opposite of Arnold. "If you don't want it-"

Arnold closed some of the space between them; enough to snatch the cup from her hand. "I didn't say that." He took a long drag from the straw, and thanked Helga for the drink. "How'd you know vanilla is my favorite?"

"I didn't," Helga told him, wordlessly praising herself for getting the small detail right. "I just guessed."

"It's hard to go wrong with vanilla. Chocolate is an acceptable second choice, though."

"Chocolate's my favorite. Or strawberry. But only if it's artificially flavored," she added.

"Aren't artificial flavors bad for you?" he warned, still taking long sips from his milkshake. The fact that he'd eaten so little but expended so much energy during the day was slowly catching up to him.

"As it turns out, _real_ strawberries are worse for me: hives, throat closing up, the whole nine yards." Helga marveled at the easy tone of his voice; not an hour ago, he'd been on the verge of tears, more than likely due to a combination of his grief and her ill-timed refusal of their 'arrangement'. She surmised that he was either remarkably well at handling rejection, or as unskilled at it as she.

"I didn't know that," he said, rocking from side to side on their shared concrete step. "Hey, Helga?" he asked, thumbing the aged cement of the step next to him.

"Yeah, Arnold?" Helga asked back, quietly, fearing the direction of the conversation.

"I'm not mad at you."

The timbre of his voice was calm and even. The pounding in Helga's ears was thunderous and erratic. She couldn't tell which was more frightening.

"I know," she told him, finally daring to make eye contact. Arnold noticed that her hip was no longer pressed against the side of the stoop. "That sounded...conceited. I just meant that…you _should_ be mad at me. But, you're not. You're… _nice_."

"I'm almost sure that's a compliment…" Arnold said, returning the gesture and moving closer to her.

A few more moments of silence stretched out before them, and as the night darkened, the street became more active. Children whizzed by on their bikes, couples stroll down the block and into well-lit restaurants, and shop owners pulled heavy metal panes down over their windows and closed up for the evening.

"It _is_ ," Helga assured him. "Just hear me out, okay? Arnold…this is your home. And, Crimeny…" she said, running her hands over her face. "I can't imagine the memories you made here. I mean, this is the place where you _became_ , honestly, one of the most amazing people I'll ever know. This house is a part of your history, and it should be connected with…happiness. Only happiness.

"Don't let me ruin that."

"Helga-"

"No, I mean it," she told him, firmly. "If you're…crazy enough to still…want to go through with this, I promise, I'll do everything I can to help you make more amazing memories. But for now, just…keep this place special. Promise me that, okay?" she pleaded.

Stepping away, metaphorically, from the Boarding House, was difficult, for every reason imaginable. Arnold fancied himself molded from the best parts of his fractured and unusual family. His grandparents were undeniably the foundation. Their sagacious advice coupled with their aged and often inappropriate humor made him the man that he was. He loved people, because they loved people. He embraced challenges because they taught him to be unafraid of failure. He searched for depth in people, places and experiences, because he found depth in the one place that would always beckon to him.

To attribute any, or so much of his person to a _place_ , was unusual for him. The Boarding House was a memorial, of that he was sure. His grandparents, and parents, respectively could have chosen to raise him in a barn, and he couldn't imagine that much of his personality would have changed.

But, having lived in the Boarding House for as long as he could remember, Arnold couldn't deny the dwelling's undeniable pull. It was more than a community landmark. People felt at home there, and he knew it. It's why people sought solace there. He spent much of his childhood opening the worn, wooden door to more than a few colorful characters. His friends came when they needed time away from family. Or when they needed a place that looked a little more like home than theirs. Local celebrities looked for respite or inspiration within the bricks walls of a building he left with a sense of eagerness, only ten years before. He'd looked to the future with such hope and expectation, and his love for his childhood home never waned. But he felt a stab of infidelity at looking for a home when an exceptionally one was literally handed to him.

"I promise," he said, quietly, wanting to thank Helga for showing him what he had; what he would have thrown away had he stayed away too long. But, he'd already ruined one moment between them, and their shared seat on the steps of his childhood home was hardly the makings of a second. He would have to wait. Again.

"Good," she stated, simply. Arnold noticed her looking around nervously, probably waiting for Phoebe and Gerald to reappear. Having grown up in Sunset Arms meant that he knew the floorboards and their telltale creaks. He could almost pinpoint their places in the house by sound alone. "Where do you think Pheebs and Geraldo disappeared to?"

"Probably the roof. Phoebe said something about wanting to see the view of the city from up there." Arnold said, smiling at the shift in their conversation.

"I thought the only way to get up there was from your room…" Helga began, biting her lip as she spoke.

"There's an access door in the upstairs hallway, too," he answered simply. "How'd you know about my room?"

Helga inhaled sharply and Arnold watched her still in her movements. After a split second of hesitation, her brow fell back into place and she rolled her eyes.

"Everyone in our grade knew about Arnold's 'cool room with the skylight'. I just figured…you know...that's how you get up there." He nodded at her explanation, but wondered if it was wise to try and expand on the subject. She was quicker than usual to avoid his gaze, but admitting that to her would be to incriminate himself. The longer he was in her presence, the more difficulty he had looking away.

"Can I ask you a weird question?" she inquired, breaking the stillness between them.

"Of course."

Helga's arms snaked around each other and cradling her elbows, much the way Arnold had in his grandparents' room. The gesture now, however, spoke of uneasiness in need of comfort, and Arnold's first impulse was to offer that consolation.

"Do you think…you think they'd like me?" she asked, under the din of the city sounds. The street before them was mostly quiet, but the city around them was buzzing.

Arnold stared in wonderment at his friend. She was one of the strongest people that he knew, and she was usually the one to remind him of that fact. She did not need him during her mother's recovery. She didn't need him when she suffered the most profound loss of her adult life. But, for some reason that escaped his notice, she needed his approval. Or, at least, the approval of his grandparents.

Without hesitation, he replied. "They would love you."

Although she continued looking at him in disbelief, a nervous smile split her face and she looked back toward the street. "Thank you."

"So, friends?" he asked, nervously.

Arnold couldn't count how many times Helga brought him back down from one mood or another, with little else than her wit and warped understanding of the human mind. She shied away from strong, overwhelming emotions; he watched her physically move away from him when she realized his intentions earlier, but somehow, she was the first person he looked to when overcome with the realities of coming home. She put just enough stock in the tangible home he grew up in, with almost no knowledge of the life he built inside.

"Of course," Helga replied, the easiness creeping its way back into her voice. "You'll have to do a lot more than propose marriage to get rid of me."

"Good to know. Though, I don't know if I can propose a third time if I'm going to get another 'no'." he told her.

"You want me to say 'yes' _before_ you propose?" Helga asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Before I propose _again_. And, yes. Kind of," he shrugged.

"Where's the fun in that?!" she exclaimed, unbothered by the lack of space between them. Arnold consciously chose to focus on the vivid expression and contortions of her face, and not the heat from the place where their hips met. "And who's to say I won't beat you to the punch? Maybe I've got a little proposal up my sleeve…"

"Oh, really?" he questioned, standing abruptly, unable to separate the emergent heat in his chest from the person seated next to him. Abandoning their perch seemed like the safest idea, until he, thoughtlessly held his hand out for her to take. He was, essentially, trading one nerve-wracking position for another.

As expected, she took his hand, but stayed on the step below him. "Really. For all you know, I could have some big, romantic gesture planned, and you would have no idea," she taunted, lifting her chin and smiling defiantly.

Arnold briefly wondered if Helga got a chocolate milkshake for herself during her impromptu visit to Slausen's. The evening was a tumultuous cocktail of emotions, reminiscing and much needed advice. Even so, as he escorted her up the dilapidated steps to the roof of his old home, he couldn't shake the question of whether or not chocolate would be his favorite milkshake flavor if he tasted it from Helga's lips.

* * *

A/N: You guuuys. This was a hard chapter to write. Lots of emotions, and not a lot of comedy. I like drowning strong emotions in laughter. Anyway, I hope it went well. Let me know what you think.

Now, you guys know I love recommending a good fic. Well, you're in for a special surprise, today, because I have not one, not two, not three, but four recommendations! *applause* And I recommend all of these for the same reason: they deserve love, they're underappreciated and I love them like crazy. The youths I know call this "sleeping on", like when an artist drops an amazing album but not a lot of people buy it, but it doesn't take away from its amazingness. So, yeah. Quit sleeping on these fics, you guys. Here goes:

' **Ever After' by Mouse9** (a prolific author in the Hey Arnold! Universe, in case you didn't know). The premise I fantastic; is just tried to describe it, and did it no justice. Trust me, you've not read anything like it. It will tear at your heart and mold it into something new. Not like a liver. Like a new…heart-type thing. Also, it's companion/follow-up **'Never After'**. Bring a bucket to catch your tears.

' **The Club' by Polkahotness**. I LOVE THIS STORY. It's pretty heartbreaking, but so well done. I can't say much more, because I don't want to give anything away, but, just go read it. Please. For me. Do it.

' **Keeping Arnold Or, How To Get Disowned' by** **Lachesism** **.** Okay, hold on a minute. Because, fangirl mode ON. This. Is. So. FANTASTIC. If you like the whole "Arnold coming back to Hillwood with secrets, and mysteries" trope, this dude does it right. I'm telling you right now, Avalanche has got nothing on this story. You might go read that, and then say, "Avalanche? What Avalanche?", and you know what? I'm okay with that. I understand. I will miss you; please drop me a line and tell me how things are. But, yeah, that right there…that's what up. It's too good. Go check it out.

Alright, I'm off, my lovies. Have a wonderful week. I adore you all.

-PointyObjects


	17. Avant

Avalanche

Chapter 16: Avant

 _Avant: From the French, meaning "forward". A movement to the front._

* * *

Soft piano music wafted through the brightly lit room, punctuated by the subtle steps of the room's occupants. The hardwood floor was stained a light brown, and worn with age from decades of use. As she walked along the barre, affixed to the white wall to her left, she remembered standing in this very room as a child, staring at the scuffed flooring beneath her, willing her feet to be graceful and arms lithe.

The merciless bang from across the floor snapped her out of her reverie and made the muscles in her neck tighten. Looking about the room, it seemed to have the same effect on the rest of the room's occupants, save for one. Exhaling sharply through her nose, she walked decidedly faster across the room.

"Do you _think_ ," Helga began, reaching for the unnecessary walking stick and snatching it away from her companion. "…that could can cool it with the stick, _already_?"

Her fellow instructor seemed unfazed by the loss of his favorite accessory, and merely turned his wide brown eyes on her. "Why would I do that?"

"Because," Helga said through two rows of clenched teeth. "Every time you decide to go all "Little Drummer Boy" with that…thing, you scare everybody. And _I_ have to spend the next ten minutes fixing their posture."

"Maybe if you taught them proper posture to begin with, you wouldn't have to _fix_ it," he replied, taking his walking stick back. Despite the playful lilt to his voice, Helga clenched her fists and took a deep breath to calm herself, before turning back to her class. Staggered along the left and right walls of the studio were students of various ages, clad in leotards of various sizes, but in identical pale pink ballet shoes. Helga specifically placed her students so that the more advanced dancers were scattered amongst the novices, making sure that no area of the room was deemed the favorite and even if a student did catch her favor, they usually didn't know about it. In addition to staging the room precisely, Helga maintained that their attire for the class was not dictated not by typical standards, but by what each student could acquire. She did not force them to purchase their supplies from any store in particular, and even the color of their leotards was left up to preference. As such, her class was almost always full, despite being deemed a "Creative Movement" course, as opposed to traditional ballet.

The saving grace for her class and teaching credentials (in addition to being universally liked for teaching a competitive field without shaming her pupils) Helga had acquired a co-instructor who had a more impressive resume and who, as much as she hated to admit it, was a far better dancer than she. This individual knew as much, and usually gave her a hard time regarding her lax teaching methods. Had she not known him for much of her life, she would have been too intimidated to say anything about his habits and methods (the walking stick was the least of them), but familiarity bred in them both a lightness to their jabs and a layer of humor to their unorthodox class.

With her fellow instructor having turned and continued his tapping, albeit somewhat quieter, Helga abandoned the miniscule disagreement, and returned to the student she was helping. She smiled at the young girl, and bent down to guide her feet to the correct position.

The creak of a door broke the melody of the piano music and Helga willed herself to wait a full eight count before looking up at the door. The entire room, save for the doors that led to the lobby and changing rooms were covered in mirrors, and the one closest to her revealed a flush face and a stiffness in her neck that only Arnold could produce.

In the week since his proposal, and her stuttered refusal, he'd frequented her class more times than she could count. She _could_ count them, but chose not to, afraid of what the number would mean. The first time he asked if he could come by on his lunch break, a mere five minutes' walk from the harbor, she relented, surmising that strolling the stores and tourists' shops was only so interesting and he was looking to change his lunchtime routine a little. It just so happened that her midday class ended not long after his lunch hour began, and as such, she could usually meet him somewhere in the middle. A coincidence she told herself, before remembering that Arnold worked for Gerald. And in addition to writing the tours, bookkeeping, maintenance of the boat and buses, and arranging and baking for the annual Employee Picnic, Gerald was also in charge of scheduling. A coincidence indeed, wrapped in a well-meaning plot.

Despite her determination not to, she looked to the door, and allowed herself to smile. While she went to bed a week ago, wishing that the evening that passed was a fever dream borne of a badly cooked burger from Slausen's, Helga woke the next day, cursing the sliver of sunlight that came into her apartment, her broken bathroom sink and every pair of lovers she passed, linked by hands or arms or infuriating little pinky fingers, all seemingly moved and orchestrated by their own happiness. She briefly considered running to Arnold's door, waking himself and his odd roommates and declaring her inexplicable and often scattered feelings for him, accepting his proposal, and maybe finding someplace that would open early and serve them blueberry pancakes. Instead of that, she rolled over on her bed, placed a pillow over her face and screamed until Ate Mari banged on the apartment door and asked if she was watching scary movies again.

"…so, when your foot comes back down, you're in fourth position." Helga said, standing and smiling at her student. Madison was, without a doubt, the most shy of her students, encouraged to take the class by parents who had lofty dreams of raising a future politician, or at least Olympian, and thought it best to expose her to her peers early.

"Thank you…" Madison said, offering one genuine smile and abandoning the room to go change.

Left in the company of her two friends (if they could even be labeled as such; one was almost sure to antagonize, the other, to make the contents of her chest drop) she focused on the sound of her worn pointe shoes against the floor as she approached the pair. Arnold was extending his hand to the dark haired man, unnecessarily introducing himself.

"Hi," Arnold began, awkwardly holding out his right hand and attempting to move his somewhat tattered messenger bag to his other shoulder. "I'm with…with her." He said, jerking his head in Helga's direction.

As much as she wanted to interrupt the introduction, Helga hid a smile behind one hand and held her tongue. Part of her wanted to see how it would play out. She intentionally met him outside of the realm of her studio, for this exact reason, but the result was turning out more comical than torturous.

"Yeah, I know," her companion, answered, smirking. Helga almost forgot how much he liked knowing things that other people didn't. He turned his head to Helga, and looked at her over his glasses. "I _told_ you he wouldn't recognize me. You owe me fifty bucks."

"You know I don't have fifty bucks," Helga told him, rolling her eyes.

Arnold looked between the two, confusion painted on his face. "I'm sorry; have we met? I haven't lived in town for quite a few years.

"Oh, I know," he repeated, running a hand over his own shiny, dark hair. "It's okay, really. I didn't believe Helga when she told me. I suppose we've both changed."

"Both?" I've _changed_!' Helga, said, moving closer and tightening circle of the small group. "And you're just harder to recognize because you insist on having that dumb haircut." Helga smiled as his hand paused over his head again. When he debuted the style, eccentric, even for his profession, Helga was relentless in her criticism of it. With the sides and back of his head shaved and dyed gray, and the top of his head left long enough to sport a bun, which he did regularly, the ammunition for taunting was more than enough for Helga.

Despite being taller than Helga, he stood up straight, and moved a hand over his small beard. "It's not dumb."

"It _is_ dumb."

"Arnold, do you think my hair is _dumb_?"

Arnold, shocked by the seemingly friendly argument happening around him, and the familiarity with which the stranger spoke to him, resulted in a halfhearted reply. "…it's nice…"

"See? Arnold thinks it's nice."

"It's _not_ nice. You look like a Korean dictator."

"I look like a tortured artist. Art, for obvious reasons, and torture, because I have to work with you on a regular basis."

"Twisted little freak."

Helga could see that the statement, brought Arnold's mind back to standing around a larger group of his peers, each of them vocalizing the sting of rejection from one of their classmates, the tension of the group broken by a suggestion of such eccentricity, that most were stunned to silence. Helga, conversely, always quick with a comeback, brought the discussion back to a place of levity. She smiled at his realization.

Shocked by the awareness of to whom he was speaking, Arnold's free hands seemed to grope at an apology, as his mouth opened and closed repeatedly. "Wow…I…I'm sorry, Curly; I didn't-"

He raised his hands, prematurely ending Arnold's apology. "No problem. Like I said, we've changed. And it's Thad now." He finished, casually moving across the room to retrieve his beloved and superfluous walking stick, which was left leaning against one of the mirrored walls upon Arnold's entry. Helga whispered that no one actually called him 'Thad', but he was regularly trying to convince strangers otherwise, when the person in question looked to Helga and extending a finger at her, addressed her. "When you're finished up with Lover Boy over there, we need to practice your lift again."

"No." Helga responded simply, reaching behind her and bending her foot to adjust one of the straps on her pointe shoes.

Curly rolled his eyes (and head, respectively) and indignantly said, "Why not?"

"Don't want to."

"If you don't, be assured that your partner will drop you on your pretty little head, and I will be too busy sipping champagne to even drag you to the hospital," he said, resting both hands on the head of his walking stick.

"If I fall and break my pretty little head," Helga taunted back. "The last person I would call is you."

"You won't need to call me; I'll be there," he said, simply.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, leaving her shoes alone now. She lamented again that Curly Gammlethorpe, long since considered 'that weird kid from her childhood, who shared nearly every dance class she'd attended in her lifetime', and was now 'that weird kid who shared nearly every dance class she'd attended in her lifetime, and also was now a weird guy with a walking stick'. Their friendship was an odd one, even on good days.

"You think dancers are the only ones who get free tickets?"

"Yeah, but, you're not a dancer."

"No, I'm a _choreographer_ ," Curly said, tapping his ostentatious walking stick against the wooden floor for emphasis. Instead of responding, Helga merely raised an eyebrow at him, encouraging him to continue. Helping her craft a lift for her number could barely be considered as accepting the role of 'choreographer'. "I've been hired. I'm choreographing one of the numbers for the competition."

"Wait, you can _do_ that?" Helga admitted that she hadn't read much of the rules for the competition; guessing that she'd competed enough and that the rules would be self-explanatory. The thought of hiring someone to do the hard work for her never crossed her mind, partially because she couldn't pay for it, and didn't want to (literally) dance to the beat of someone else's drum.

" _Someone_ can," Curly told her, nonchalantly, inspecting his fingernails. "Of course, Choreographer/Dancer Privilege prevents me from disclosing any names. But, I can tell you I've been promised a sizeable portion of the winnings."

Helga rolled her eyes now, not out of frustration, as she usually did when in Curly's presence, but because he was actually right. Hiring a choreographer would have been far easier; in the past few weeks, she spent nearly twice as much time in her studio, and found herself changing her mind more often than not. Nonetheless, she wasn't keen on sharing the meager winnings with anyone else, and hoped that it was worth the headaches she was giving herself. A question came up into her mind and she could not help but ask.

"If you're hired to choreograph someone else's dance, why are you helping _me_?" she asked, tilting her head.

Stepping forward toward her, Arnold's presence all but forgotten, Curly used his free hand to hold Helga's chin, tenderly enough to keep her from wriggling away, but too firm to denote any affection that would make Arnold jealous. "Oh, Helga; my old friend. I will always help you for this simple fact: when we were but children, you were often paired with me in our after school dance classes. Not only did you keep my secret from our less than kind classmates, you never complained of my lack of strength, my inability, for years, to properly lift you, and the fact that I was nearly seven inches shorter than you. It is because of you, my old friend, that I am the dancer I am today. I am eternally grateful," he told her with sincerity.

Helga wrinkled her nose, and raised an eyebrow at his words. When a breath passed between them, and he did not contradict himself, she asked, "Are you serious?"

Quickly releasing her face, Curly smirked at her. "Of course not. I just don't have anything to do after our class. Pardon me for being somewhat philanthropic. And really, you need the help. You'd be lost without me."

Scowling, Helga rubbed her offended cheek and turned away from Arnold, knowing that Curly would pester her again for the need to practice their lift. "Weirdo," she muttered. Turning to Arnold she spoke in a less frustrated tone. "You don't have to stick around."

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. "I don't mind. I'd actually like to see it. I don't think I've ever seen a…dance lift before," he told her simply, and taking a seat on the floor. He looked eager and supportive, and Helga had to turn away before the blush returned to her cheeks.

Forgoing music, as the entire dance was not yet fully conceived, and the lift was the only portion Curly was familiar with, anyway, Helga took her place before him, steadying her breathing. She counted down in her head, going through the motions of the movements that proceeded the lift, silently letting her partner know that she wanted to practice it a count slower than its intended measure.

Exhaling and closing her eyes, Helga threw the last shreds of her trepidation to the side and strove to completely trust her partner. In the count of a breath, she was lifted up, and her lower body swung back down and her feet behind Curly's shoulder. As a result, her torso and head were thrust back, a feeling that made her facial muscles clench. In an instant, Helga was being suspended upside down, one of her long legs pointed, and the other, slightly bent, the two coming together to grip Curly's oddly muscular arm, taking the strain off of her arms. Nevertheless, she maintained a lax grip on both of his forearms, and willed herself not to grow dizzy. The two held the lift for a full eight count, before Curly released her, and she curled around his back until she stood again on the floor.

Hoping that the lift was quick enough to escape Arnold's attention, Helga nervously brushed a stray lock of hair from her face when Arnold broke out in spontaneous and lone applause in the studio.

"That was brilliant!" Arnold said, abandoning his spot on the floor to approach them both.

"Just a little something I came up with in my spare time. You're welcome," Curly told Helga, stretching his shoulders.

"Thanks; how ever will I repay you?" she asked sarcastically.

"Fifty percent of your winnings, if you take home first prize."

Helga scoffed. "Are you kidding me? No way!"

"Of course I'm kidding. I don't want to take your earnings. I have a soul, you know. Granted, it's blackened and shriveled from misuse, but it's _there_ ," he said, crossing the room to pack up his belongings. "And don't sweat the lift. Another week, and you'll be able to do this thing one-handed."

Amidst the movement of Arnold and Curly in the room, Helga felt the blood in her ears quicken. She held out both hands in front of her, turning them over several times. Bending her left hand behind her back, she looked back at the floor, to the spot where Curly stood as the practiced the lift. In her movements, she didn't hear Curly and Arnold calling her name.

"Helga? Are you alright?" Arnold asked, approaching her and laying a hand on her shoulder.

Helga's face split into a smile. Often it took weeks for the full realization of a dance number to come together. Curly's statement, coupled with her own plans for the evening were going to come together perfectly.

"Yes. Fine. Great. I just need you to leave," she said quickly, looking between the only other occupants of the room. "Both of you. _Now_."

Instead of waiting for them to leave on their own, Helga physically pushed the two men toward the door, a cluster of bags and walking sticks moving stubbornly toward the wooden door.

Once outside, Helga slammed the door shut behind them and the only sound from the other side was a lock fastening. Arnold looked to Curly, who seemed concerned only with the straightening of his attire and making sure his walking stick was not injured.

"I suppose she's always this difficult?"

"Is she Helga Pataki?" Curly answered with a question of his own. "A word of advice Arnold? Keep an eye on your 'walking stick'. That girl is poison."

* * *

Watching her child from across a room was always something Phoebe looked forward to. In their hours alone together, with the apartment silent and Gerald busy at work, Levi was a good-natured, lively child. He could regularly be found getting into something he shouldn't have; his new favorite 'toy' was a jar of Gerald's rather pricey, all-natural hair gel quoted by him as the only thing that could "even begin to reveal the luxuriousness of his afro". She couldn't tell if Levi knew that she and Gerald would get upset by this fascination with the product, or if he genuinely liked playing with it. Even so, Phoebe sometimes hoped that his agreeable nature was more than just a mother's esteem. He sat now, laughing over a once blank page of a coloring book that Timberly bought him, with her sitting next to him on the floor, handing him different colored crayons and ruffling his curly, dark hair.

Her sister-in-law had grown up better than expected, shedding the wildness of her teens and entering her early twenties with much less angst, but twice as much silliness. With no siblings of her own, Phoebe, when she and Gerald were first married, was struck with a bit of awkwardness at her new sister-in-law. At the time, and even now, Timberly was nothing short of flighty, changing jobs after a few months, always making and breaking up with friends and lovers alike, and constantly on the search for her next big inspiration. She seemed to wander without focus, something that worried Gerald and his mother immensely. Phoebe tried to assure her husband that while Timberly was capricious, to say the least, she was not stupid, and need only find something – a profession, perhaps – that could hold her attention. Until then, each meeting would be met with a new endeavor on the part of his sister.

Once she and Gerald had Levi, however, Phoebe saw a marked change in her, and hoped that her husband did as well. Timberly spoke far less of nights out with friends than she used to. She took a CPR class, and volunteered at a women's shelter downtown. And beyond all else, she loved Levi. There were times, when Phoebe thought Timberly was more excited to see Levi than herself.

Phoebe was considering asking a request of her sister-in-law, when her attention was drawn back to the conversation at the countertop. She and Gerald held an annual dinner in their modest apartment for their parents and nearby siblings, and had done so for the past two of their four years of marriage. The first two years went ignored, and they heard no end of it; repeated pleas and subtle suggestions of "We've never seen the apartment, you know", and "Wouldn't it be nice to have a dinner and not have to put Levi in that car seat?" As such, they took the hint, and decided that, once a year, both sets of parents and siblings would come over for dinner, offer their suggestions for improving their home, advise as to the best way to potty train/feed/clothe their son, and make off color jokes (literally) at their expense. This dinner was attended by only Gerald's side of the family, as her mother and father had caught a nasty cold, and not wanting to infect Levi (not caring for the immune systems of their adult children), stayed home.

"I'm sorry," Phoebe said, looking to Gerald's mother for a hint as to which way the conversation was going.

Gerald put his hand over hers on the countertop, still cool from the dish towel he'd used to dry his hands. "Mom was just asking about your company picnic we went to last weekend."

Phoebe smiled at the memory. Her old colleagues were delighted to finally meet her son, and despite the number of new faces she saw, Phoebe found herself in familiar company. She could tell, also, that Gerald was more comfortable than he used to be in the presence of her coworkers. Gerald started his business only a year after Phoebe began her job as a Social Worker and Community Advocate, and the endeavor drained much of their savings. Much of it had been replenished over time, but even Phoebe could feel the look of derision from her coworkers at the thought of her husband giving up a steady job at a well-known sports apparel company to start his own business. Phoebe, as apprehensive as she was about the business venture, knew that their situation could not get much worse. Gerald was utterly miserable at his job. Incompetent supervisors, slothful coworkers, and a corporate ladder that did not look well on him or his lack of a considerable college degree contributed to his moods at the end of the worday. It was particularly difficult for her to see her husband, a hard-working, ambitious, smart man, overlooked time and again for positions that he was more than qualified for. These days, even when he had a bad day on the job, she could at least be satisfied in knowing that he came home somewhat happy.

Phoebe answered that the picnic was nice, that everyone doted on Levi and commented that they couldn't tell who he favored more, and hoped to see her again soon.

"It's good to hear them welcome you back so nicely, dear," Shari told her daughter-in-law, wrapping a sheet of clear plastic over a container of leftover pasta. Her tone denoted more than just simple congratulations.

Phoebe endeavored to smile wider at her mother in law. There had never been any bad blood between the two women. After Jamie-O, in an impetuousness brought on by youth and the unexpected passing of his father, moved out west some years ago, married and divorced within a year. With such a relationship in comparison, Gerald's mother was more than welcoming to Phoebe, given their long courtship and willingness to indulge her in a reasonably sized wedding. Even so, Phoebe mused, she and her mother-in-law did not see eye to eye on many subjects, and she learned not to broach them, in an effort to keep the peace. Nonetheless, Phoebe felt the shyness of her youth creep back whenever she was engaged in conversation with her mother-in-law. Even in her fifties, Shari Johanssen's face held their sharp angles, her eyes were deep and brown and piercing when necessary. Gerald had told her many times that, as a child, she could wither any of her children with nothing more than a glance, and Phoebe knew that one day, that wilting gaze would fall on her.

In this way, Phoebe tread lightly. She knew, without anyone having to tell her outright, that her mother-in-law did not think much of an extended maternity leave, and Phoebe felt herself going on, unnecessarily.

"I hope to be seeing them again soon," she began, trying to reign in her eagerness. "Gerald and I were talking about my returning to work." Phoebe wasn't sure why she volunteered this information. She blamed it on her insatiable need to be all things to all people; she hated the thought of someone disliking her for something she could easily change. And understanding her own nature, she knew that she could bear a measure of discomfiture for the sake of the good opinion of others.

"Hmm," Shari replied, raising her eyebrows and looking to her son, who stood behind Phoebe. "Well, that's good news. You know, I _worked_ all through Gerald's childhood. Jamie-O and Timberly's too."

Phoebe took a deep breath through her nose, and briefly squeezed the hand of her husband, which had moved to her upper arm, just over the bend of her elbow. Gerald rarely spoke ill of his parents; he had so little to complain of, growing up in a community where a nuclear family was uncommon. More often than not, the parents were split up, one parent absent either by choice or unfortunate circumstances. He knew he was lucky to grow up with two attentive, relatively normal parents. But he also knew they were far from perfect.

These musings he shared with Phoebe, and despite the slight trepidation that his mother often struck within her, knew that she could stand up to her with less repercussions than had Gerald taken the feat.

"Yes, this country is rather backwards regarding maternity and paternity leave. Did you know that, until a few years ago, there were almost no provisions for paid paternity leave in Maryland? I'm so glad we were both able to take some time off for Levi," Phoebe finished, patting the hand over her arm. She fought the smile that attempted to creep over her face. Phoebe knew that some of her mother-in-law's thinking was based on archaic standards, and knowing that such deep-rooted feelings would not be soon upended, tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Even so, Phoebe and Gerald both considered the options open to them when she found out she was pregnant. And while at first, she felt guilt at staying home as her husband worked nearly nonstop to support them and their child, resolved that, in the long run, she would have no regrets. A few words from her in laws was not about to sway her where her own mind could not.

Gerald's mother admitted that she did not know that, and offered that she could watch Levi, if there was a need.

"We were looking into a nanny, actually," Gerald told her. "So, you don't get burned out." Phoebe knew the truth behind her husband's words. He had an excellent mother. She was as hard-working as he, cordial to nearly everyone she met and quick witted. But, Phoebe sometimes saw an ambition in her; years of answering to no one and keeping tabs on her children, sometimes led her to continue in her pattern. She scoffed and sneered when Timberly chose to cut away her long, straight hair in favor of a short afro of tight, dark curls. Gerald's decision to start his own business was met with wide, shocked eyes. Phoebe awaited the critical gaze from her mother in law, tempered only by love for her children and relations.

Instead, Shari waved a hand at her children, for that was how Phoebe felt at the gesture, and curled her brow. "Nonsense. He's my grandson – my _only_ grandson," she said, pointedly, looking toward Gerald and Timberly, who both went out of her way to ignore her. "It's never a burden to look after him."

Phoebe scratched her ear unabashed, rustling the dark hair near her cheek. Looking out into the open living room area, she hid a smile at Timberly; independent, fiery, silly Timberly, and ventured to have a moment alone with her before the evening's end. If a Johanssen was to look after her son, it would be one of her choosing.

* * *

"Could you please stop hitting me in the face with that poor, innocent tribble?"

Helga uttered the request with her eyes closed, knowing that if she did otherwise, she would receive a scowl and two eyefulls of face powder. Upon opening her eyes, she was greeted with a scowl anyway, and a huff as the offending object was returned to its case. The blue-haired woman before her rolled her eyes and began packing up her tools. Helga breathed a sigh of relief and let her shoulders fall slightly and relax. There were few things Helga hated more than being poked and prodded at; she didn't like being touched unless the contact was initiated by herself, as rare as those occasions were. She accompanied Phoebe on an acupuncture appointment once, one that Phoebe deemed necessary to alleviate some of the stress brought on by postpartum anxiety after Levi's birth, and Helga came along for support. As Phoebe sat back in her chair, still as a stone, Helga cringed and writhed under each pinprick, until she nearly threatened the acupuncturist to remove all of the needles (all four of them) and excused herself to go outside and scream. It took nearly an hour for her to shake the feeling of bugs crawling across her skin.

Looking around her normally vacant studio, Helga rolled her own eyes at the makings of a farce before her. Among the people busting around, there were lights, cameras, a director of sorts and a lone makeup artist. The only other person subjected to this treatment was standing outside of the studio, and Helga hoped they weren't making him look and feel as ridiculous as she.

"Miss Pat...Paton…"

"Pataki," Helga finished, standing up from her chair, trying to keep her hands out of her hair. The room was chillier than usual, and Helga couldn't tell if it was because the air conditioning was turned on higher than usual, or if she was so unaccustomed to sitting still in that room, that she felt the cold more acutely.

The person who called to her was somewhat of a director, tall and somewhat thick in the shoulders, dressed haphazardly in a denim button down shirt and jeans. His hair was dark brown and mostly hidden under a non-descript baseball cap, and his face accented with a patchy, brown beard. His eyes were focused on a clipboard in his hand, flipping amongst pages while speaking to her.

"So, we're going to have Mr. Hillman come in in about…five minutes. Is that okay?" he asked, wholly ignoring her. Before Helga could answer, he turned away from her, in manner that clearly meant 'follow me', and she did so quietly, much as she did not want to. "He's going to come in through that door, you meet him halfway, shake hands, and ask him to have a seat over there," he said, motioning to the two chair set up across the room. A camera was pointed at the two chairs, and Helga had to admit that she was impressed to see that the 'interview space' was set up so that, despite the mirrored walls, the cameras and equipment wouldn't be seen.

"And please remember to mention the library; they're donating quite a sum to this event, and we need it mentioned as much as you can, got it?"

Helga exhaled and raised an eyebrow. "Got it," she answered, unhappy with the notion of being told how to meet and converse with someone she met nearly two weeks prior. The event coordinators gave each dancer a month to meet and practice their routines before the event, and since they were dragging their feet in arranging it _for_ her, Helga walked down to the Enoch Pratt Library and, after being thoroughly distracted by the bevy of books, found the office of the Board of Directors and introduced herself. Helga found Lloyd Hillman to be extremely friendly, quick to smile, easygoing, and mentioned many times that he was excited at the prospect of learning from her. They agreed to meet twice weekly, and Helga promised not to grow wild with power, while he promised to reign in his two left feet.

Nevertheless, the event staff, upon finding out that the occasion (titled 'Ballroom with Baltimore's Best' to Helga's chagrin) was receiving press from its lineup of local celebrities, insisted that all the dancer should be shot on camera, 'formally' meeting their students, even though almost all had been in each other's acquaintance for weeks. Helga felt her meeting saved for last for obvious reasons; her partner was not a political figure, and she was not a professional dancer. They were both considered expendable, and as such, received paltry attention in comparison to their competitors.

Even so, Helga was instructed to look 'as much like a dancer as she could' before she arrived, and then stripped of the costume as soon as she entered the room. Her hair was released from its tight bun and curled, falling over her shoulders in a cloud of hairspray, and makeup applied to her face. She was thankful, at least that her clothing was left untouched. She auditioned for the competition as a classically trained ballet dancer, and as such, when instructed to 'dress like a dancer', made the costume look as authentic as she could. Over her standard black leotard and pale pink tights, Helga wore a gray, cropped cable-knit sweater, and her pointe shoes were partially covered by black legwarmers. She was ready to abandon much of her clothing if the staff employed in dressing her had any more sensible ideas. But, seeing as they didn't, she remained dressed in her own attire, and despite feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the room of strangers, could relax, at least, in her own garments.

A shout came from the corner of the room, a call to action for all in the area, her most of all, and Helga stood up straighter, looking to the door and plastering on a ready smile. The wooden doors to the studio opened, and before she could make out her partner, a bright light distracted her, and Helga surmised that as she was being prepped within the studio, he was facing a similar treatment outside. Hopefully, without the makeup.

Entering the room, Lloyd Hillman found Helga and waved from across the room, and Helga noticed the familiarity in it. He was, more than likely, similarly prepped regarding the ruse of a 'first meeting' between them, but had no intention of working along with it. Helga was already considering him a friend, unlikely as it seemed, given their age difference (and the fact that she'd never even heard of him, prior to two weeks before) and was happy that the feeling was mutual. She approached him and extended her hand anyway.

"Mr. Hillman?" she asked, smiling genuinely for the first time all day.

"Please, call me Lloyd. And you must be Miss Pataki," he said, and Helga felt her smile grow wider at the sound of his voice. He was native to Ghana, but having lived stateside for the majority of his life, the accent was veiled, save for when he pronounced certain words. His skin was dark caramel, and along with the faintest wrinkle about his brown eyes, he sported a wide smile of the whitest, straightest teeth Helga had ever seen. Despite being nearly twice her age, Helga could not help but blush under his gaze. He had all the makings of a successful political player, but was too genuine and cordial to pass for one.

"Please, call me Helga," she joked in response, and motioned to the impromptu seating area in the studio. "So…you're the Head of the Board of Directors at the Enoch Pratt Free Library on Cathedral Street, right?" she asked, hoping to mention everything she was supposed to in one fell swoop, so that the remainder of their conversation could continue without charade. Behind the camera, she heard the director sigh.

"Yes, I've been on the Board for about ten years," he replied, going on with her line of questioning and nodding along with her.

"And I heard that you and your wife just celebrated your anniversary. Congratulations," Helga offered, trying to subtly turn her chair away from the camera to her right. The bright light over the recording device made her feel hot in the otherwise chilled room, and the microphone attached to her sweater was making her chest itch.

"We did. Thirty years last month. And thank you," he said, smiling again, sensing her nervousness. "We actually held it in one of the banquet rooms in the Peabody Library. I suppose you could say we both have a thing for libraries," he joked.

Helga tilted her head. "I didn't know there was a banquet room in the Peabody."

"Well, it's less of a banquet room, and more…well, it was held _in_ the library."

"You can hold banquets in the _library_?" Helga asked, shocked. She couldn't think of anything better; parties usually bored her, but know that she could reach behind her own head and find something to read to alleviate the tedium that a wedding usually brought with it was more than appealing.

"I didn't know either! The building really is quite amazing at night, and-"

" _Excuse me_ ," came the nasally voice of the director, now standing to the side of the camera, and his staff flanking him. "Maybe we can go back to the _Enoch Pratt Library_? You know, the one sponsoring this event?" he asked, clearly upset with the direction and easiness of their conversation.

Helga dipped her chin, instead of laughing at the ridiculous man's anger and looked back at her partner, who decided to lead the dialogue. "So, what kind of dancing do you do, when you're not teaching us old geezers?"

Helga smiled. "I usually teach kids, but I guess my expertise is in ballet and classical. And ballroom, of course," she added, glancing at the camera warily. Hopefully, the interview would be cut up and most of it abandoned on the editing room floor of the local news station, and no one would know that she was probably the most unqualified dancer of the lot.

From the corner of her eye, Helga watched their frustrated director waving erratically, and in an instant the blinding light over the camera turn off. The tension in her shoulder and neck was immediately eased, and Helga almost sighed from the release.

"Alright," he interrupted, his voice tight and frustrated. "We're out of time. We'll just…figure something out. Pack it in, people!' he shouted behind him, his voice booming above the chatter to his back. The crew began doing as much, unplugging electronics and zipping up large black duffel bags, leaving Helga and Mr. Hillman to watch quietly. Catching his eye, Helga suggested that they leave the room, and visit the small café on the ground floor of the recreation center while to crew abandoned the room. Lloyd agreed, and they quitted the room without drawing notice from the cantankerous crew. Helga quickly dug through her bag in the corner and fished out a thin black slip of fabric, and fixing it around her hips, hoped she was covered enough to traverse the hallways.

"So, what does the Head of The Board of Directors of a library do, exactly?" Helga asked as they walked down the hallway. She was excited not to be shackled with some aging politician, looking for a third, young wife or an indifferent public servant, pushed into the competition by a desire to gain favor with the public. Lloyd Hillman seemed smart, approachable and sincere.

Lloyd shrugged. "Nothing worth writing home about. I oversee donations, try to keep an eye on community projects, things like that. And I get to personally serve people with court notices for overdue library fees," he joked, smiling widely.

"Sounds like fun."

"It has its challenges. Particularly, trying to get kids excited about rooms filled with books, when they literally have the entire world in their back pocket. That hasn't been easy."

Helga jostled the idea around in her head. "Yeah, I guess. But books are different," she told him.

"How so?"

"Well, tablets and phones are more convenient, for sure. My mom bought me an e-reader a few years ago, because whenever I'd travel to see her, I had to check my bags because they were so heavy. But, I don't know, I don't feel like curling up with my laptop on a rainy day. Maybe that's just me," Helga said. The pair ordered their hot beverages and took a seat at one of the few small tables in the lobby's café. Outside, the early afternoon sun was often interrupted by tufts of clouds, casting shadows over the windows of the recreation center, frequently changing the lighting in the room.

"Well, I'm glad to see I was paired with a book sympathizer."

"The biggest book sympathizer you'll probably find." Helga raised her Styrofoam cup and laughed as he mirrored the action and tapped his cup with hers. "Though, I have to admit, I'm not a ballroom dancer. I was never trained in it, I mean. I hope I don't embarrass us both in two weeks."

Lloyd waved his free hand at her, and looked entirely nonplussed. "Don't worry about that. At least we'll have fun."

Helga allowed a stretch of silence to pass between them before speaking again. "So, thirty years, huh? That's a long time. Congratulations," she repeated.

"Thank you. And, you know, it's not such a long time, not if you find the right person. Time sort of…flies by, if you'll pardon the cliché."

Helga finally broke eye contact and looked down at the dull, brown lid of her cup. The thought of a long marriage made her slightly uncomfortable, not having known, first hand, of many as lengthy as his. "That's what I hear," she replied quietly, wishing for some distraction. "How did you two meet?"

He laughed then, bearing most of his very white teeth in the process. "I guess you could say we were old friends. We grew up in Roland Park, or I did, at least. She moved to my neighborhood when I was in the third grade, but if you ask her, she doesn't remember meeting me until we were sixth grade. I guess I was just paying more attention to her than she was to me."

Helga laughed at the familiarity of the feeling, remembering too many afternoons of waiting behind trashcans, down alleys and in the high branches of trees.

"She was smart and popular; one of those people that everybody likes. And I did everything to catch her attention. She joined the girls' basketball team in junior high, and since they girls' and boys' teams usually played on the same day, I joined the boys' team. I kind of hoped she'd stay after to watch me play."

"Did she?" Helga asked, now attentive to the story.

"Not often enough. And I was hopeless at basketball, anyway, so maybe it was for the best. In high school, she was in every club you could imagine, and I followed her to each one. She was in Glee Club; I couldn't sing, but joined anyway. Same for German Club, Theatre Club, Ecology Club-"

"Ecology Club?" Helga asked, skeptically.

"You heard right. I still don't know what that club did _exactly_. I think we tried getting the principal to approve planting more trees on school property. It didn't work, but in the yearbook photo, I got to stand right next to her."

"And then what happened? You graduated and got married?"

"Oh _no_ ," Lloyd laughed. "She hardly looked my way, even then. Left to go to a women's college in Philadelphia. And I stayed here, and figured out who I was without her." He spoke without resentment or regret. Helga imagined a young Lloyd, struggling to build an identity after pining after the same person for most of his young life. She didn't attempt to fight the pang in her stomach at the familiar feeling of waiting.

Thinking her silence to mean that he could go on, Lloyd continued. "A few years later, she came home for a few weeks for winter break. It was one of the biggest blizzards Baltimore had seen. I was working at the library at the time, but, I was doing odd jobs around the neighborhood as well. Her mother asked me to shovel the snow from in front of the house, though it was coming down so hard, I could barely finish before I had to start again.

"And wouldn't you know, that's how she met me again. She was coming back from the corner store and looked…well, she looked like a ray of sunshine in a blizzard, to be honest. And there _I_ was, sweating under layers of sweaters, my mittens and socks soaking wet, and nearly knee-deep in snow. And, before I can say two words, or even wipe my nose, she says, "'Lloyd Hillman, from P.S. 144. If you don't come inside and warm up right now, I won't be to blame if you turn into a snowman out here.'

"And, that was it. We were nearly inseparable after that. She visited me at the library the next day, and, being as poor as I was at the time, I couldn't buy her flowers or chocolates or any of that. The library sold these little notebooks, and I bought one for her, and told her to use it to write to me after she went back to college."

"And she used every page to write to you, right?"

"Wrong again, Miss Pataki!" he said, his accent making his words even clearer, as opposed to muddying them. "She never used it, except to write her name on the inside cover. She told me later – much later – that she couldn't imagine ripping a single page out of it. She's still got it somewhere. It's all pink, with flowers on it," he finished smiling at his own weathered hands.

"She sounds like quite the character. I'd like to meet her," Helga told him, her anxiety washed away by the narrative. She couldn't help but smile at the picture painted by his words. In the back of her mind, an idea was germinating as to how to include the story of the Hillmans' reunion into their dance.

"Oh, you will. I think she's as excited to see me dance as some of my colleagues," he joked. "And what about you?" Lloyd asked, after taking a long swallow from his own cup. "Wil I be introduced to a significant other at this event?"

Helga felt her face flush, and fought against the urge to bite her lip and look away. Outside of her small circle of friends, the odd acquaintance and one or two particularly persistent cat-callers on the bus earlier that week, she was single. Arnold was, beyond a doubt her friend, first. That relationship could not be called into question in her mind. There was mutual trust, familiarity and humor in nearly every contact that they made. The remainder of their relationship, the awkward glances and the odd pull that made Helga want to push him away before she embarrassed herself further, was one that she couldn't name.

She chose to address their relationship in the simplest terms she could conjure. "Yes, I have a…a boyfriend. Sort of. It's complicated."

Lloyd seemed unbothered by her awkwardness. "Complicated, huh?" he asked, having finished his tea. "Well, not all complications are bad, you know."

"Really? How do you figure that?"

"You know that lift you tried to teach me last week? It was complicated, but not bad. Maybe it's not even complicated. Just…intricate."

"That's one word for it." Helga now took up the habit she picked up from Arnold, of nervously rubbing the back of her neck and looking about the room anxiously.

"Even so, I look forward to meeting him."

"Yeah. So, about our dance," she began swiftly changing the subject as the room grew warmer about her face. "I know we agreed to do a Viennese Waltz, but I have another idea…"

He sat up across from her and Helga anticipated some angry gesture at her third change to their number in the last few weeks. This one, she hoped would be the last, as it was the best idea she'd come up with thus far. Instead, he merely squared his shoulders and smiled again. "A change, huh? And what brought this on?"

Relieved, Helga invited him back upstairs to the studio, for which she'd rented out for the day, in anticipation of the almost entirely new dance number she'd choreographed for them. She thought on the lift that Curly showed and perfected with her, considering the amendment to their number and how it would fit with the information she was just given. As they walked and talked, her idea was sparked to life, and she was glad that she'd modified the number, and eager for the evening in question to arrive, knowing that if Arnold were as excited to watch her dance as Mrs. Hillman was, they could manage to surprise them both.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so, I love this chapter a little bit. Not a lot of action, I know. It gets better. Just stick around. A lot of characters are loosely based on people I know. Lloyd Hillman is a dear friend of mine; he is almost identical to him in real life, save for the name. And I based Gerald's mother's appearance ( _not_ personality) off of my own mother, literally, the most wonderful woman to walk the planet. Ever. EVER. Gerald's mother isn't named in the show, so I just went with the first name of the voice actress who played her. If you know of her 'fanon' first name, feel free to let me know. And I hope I didn't make her too unbearable. That portion was from a third-person, Phoebe-centric viewpoint, and the two don't fully understand one another yet. But I love writing Phoebe and Gerald. I JUST LOVE IT. I may or may not be working on a standalone fic that predates Avalanche, focusing on Phoebe and Gerald. But you didn't hear that from me.

And, thanks for sticking around so long, you guys. This story has a bit more to be told, and I love that you guys have been with me for the long haul! Let me know how you liked this chapter!

-PointyO


	18. Building

Chapter 17: Building

 _Building- Creating a drink by adding ice to a glass, and adding the spirits, mixers, alcohol or juices that the cocktail/drink requires, before finishing with a garnish. The drink can later be shaken or stirred, but is built in the glass beforehand._

* * *

With a final bang on the outside windowsill, Helga deemed the window locked, and turned away from it. Adjusting her heavy duffel bag on her shoulder, she stepped warily, knowing the rusty areas of the fire escape would not hesitate to lower her to the pavement below in an instant. Scaling the steep steps of the fire escape backwards, Helga listened as the metal creaked and cracked under her weight, and bypassing the final two rungs, Helga hopped down and brushed her hands against one another to rid herself of the chips of rust that stuck to them. The evening was already dark, and Helga began walking toward the nearest bus stop quickly. Her costume for the evening was already at the location where she was headed, and a small, black bag of makeup and a change of clothes would be her only adornment for the evening. She hoped it was enough, and then laughed to herself, realizing that may be the theme of the night. Her hopes were undoubtedly high; she had much to lose, and thinking too hard on it made her chest tight and her head hurt. Instead, she stood on the street corner, and hummed the music for her dance number until the illuminated city bus pulled up in front of her. The doors bent open and she presented her wrinkled bus pass and found an empty sideways seat in the middle of the vehicle, setting her bag on her lap. Fishing a pair of headphones from the side pocket of her bag, Helga put one in her ear (as Phoebe was always telling her not to be too distracted when she rode the bus, or walked around downtown, or did anything, really), and closed her eyes.

" _Is he asleep?"_

 _Helga, in her general inexperience with children, literally tiptoed around the apartment when Levi was asleep, not wanting to be the reason for his incessant wailing upon waking unexpectantly. She never minded giving up her volume for Levi to take a nap during her visits, but Helga knew that even when she managed to steal Phoebe away for a few hours, she would always be Levi's mother, and even a phone conversation had to be taken seriously. When Gerald called, with Levi wailing in the background, Phoebe offered to sing him to sleep, knowing that her voice would soothe and comfort him for a few hours, and Helga threw in her own warbled voice for good measure. Phoebe nodded, clearly relieved._

" _I knew my singing would do the trick," Helga said from the other side of the curtain. The two were the only patrons of the store; Helga having called ahead to schedule a time to reserve her dress for the dance competition. Most dancers had reserved or bought their costumes much earlier, but Helga, who chose to rent, was much more strapped for funds, and finally found a small, locally owned dance apparel store that would allow her to rent a dress for a reasonable rate, waited. She and Phoebe planned to have lunch together weeks before, and when Helga told her that she was going to find a dress for the competition, Phoebe offered to come along, even though her experience in the field was scant. Helga, however, was just happy to have company._

" _Helga, your singing is terrible," Phoebe stated, simply._

 _In response, her friend's hand flew over her heart and a look of shock came to her face. "I will remind you," Helga began. "That I wrote a musical, Phoebe. At the tender of age of_ nine _."_

" _Yes, but you didn't_ sing _in it. Neither did I. I suppose nepotism didn't alter your hearing," Phoebe said, smiling, taking a long drag from her cup of tea from the café they'd visited first. The owner of the store, a statuesque, dark skinned woman named Tori, with a mass of black twisted hair in a bun on her head waved her hand at the cup and only warned Phoebe that Helga would bear the payment if tea found its way to any of her creations. Helga shot her friend a wide-eyed look, and Phoebe was cautious with her cup for the entirety of their visit._

" _You were my faithful stage manager, Phoebe."_

" _Is that why I wasn't held to the 'dairy-only diet'?"_

" _You_ were _held to the dairy-only diet."_

 _Phoebe snickered. "_ I _didn't stick to it."_

 _Shaking her head, Helga responded. "Typical. No one understands artists. Anyway, I could have sworn we came here to talk about_ you _, Phoebe. You said you had news for me." Helga watched as her friend, usually so calm and rational, came to life; tucking her short legs under her cushioned hair, gripping her cup with both hands and grinning wildly. Had she not known any better, Helga would have thought that Phoebe won tickets to go see yet another talentless hag, the way she was squirming in her seat._

" _Well, I was out in Canton on Wednesday, and I ran into Carrie; you remember her, right? She was my boss at that private practice. Anyway, we had lunch, and she told me to come by her office in two weeks for an interview! Isn't that exciting?" Phoebe asked, nearly spilling her tea._

 _Helga, as excited for her friend, took the cup gingerly, and set it on a nearby, glass end table before them, and then took the opportunity to celebrate with her friend. The two bounced about in the salon, and Phoebe squealed into her tiny fists, before remembering the owner in the next room, and commenced her celebrating in a quieter tone._

" _That's awesome, Pheebs! That's a little less stressful than working with the school system, right?"_

" _And easier to get part time," she added, smiling._

" _Well, I'm happy for you. Hey, when Gerald throws you a party, I might even spend more than ten bucks on a bottle of wine for you," Helga told her. Before they arrived, Helga had called ahead, explained the nature of her dance number, and sent Tori a few pictures of dresses that she saw online that fit her aesthetic. As such, the shop owner pulled a few for her in advance. Motioning to Phoebe that she was still listening, despite disappearing behind the ivory-colored curtain, Helga beckoned her to continue. After a stretch of silence from her friend, Helga poked her head back out of the room, her eyebrow curving upwards as she questioned her. "Gerald-o isn't throwing you a party?"_

" _I am…biding my time, until I tell hi-"_

" _Phoebe LeAnn Heyerdahl-_ _Johanssen!" Helga said, louder than she intended. "What in the name of crimeny are you waiting for? This is good news!"_

" _I know that," Phoebe retorted, stating the obvious._

" _And, you said he defended you to his mom. He's on your side."_

"' _Defended' is an inaccurate term, Helga. He…expressed his support. Which I was already assured of. It's just complicated right now. Sometimes, it's a good idea to wait to give your significant other news, even if it's not_ bad _news. Trust me." She said, calmly, adjusting her tan cardigan about her shoulders._

 _Helga rolled her eyes but knew that she was out of her jurisdiction. She did not know the inner workings of a normal relationship or how people acted in them. Her parents were far from a standard example, having spent years in one another's company with little to no compunction of how to speak to each other with any grace. If anything, Helga grew up thinking it was normal to be coarse with the people that you love, and that tender moments of affection were better saved for private musings. As for her relationship with Marc, while she felt some affection for him, it was so oddly expressed, she couldn't find it in herself to draw on it as experience. She summed up their relationship as putting together a puzzle and finding two pieces that seemed to fit together, even when faced with overwhelming evidence that they did not. Their pasts aligned slighty, their interests seemed to jibe, but beyond the surface, they had little in common. They went days without speaking, and were unbothered by it. When one began to speak, the other anticipated when they would finish. Helga was only sad to see the union end because it was yet another bond that she could not maintain, another relationship she could not hold together. Sometimes, at least before the reappearance of Arnold and his ridiculous, amazing, potentially heartbreaking plan, she thought about what would have happened had she tried harder. If she'd set the table for her parents or put out a board game after school or bought them an anniversary present every year. Would she have had a family to look at now, as a model to follow after as an adult? But those thoughts led her nowhere. And even if they did, she was happy that, even where blood failed her, Phoebe and Gerald did not. Far from perfect, they were the most normal (though the least traditional) family she knew. They dealt with jobs and their child, discussed rent and debt, lamented over intrusive in-laws and meddling passersby, and despite it all, loved each other without harness or hindrance. If ever there was a couple worthy of imitation, Helga would be hard pressed to find them._

" _If you say so." Helga concluded, all but dropping the subject. "Just have a little faith in his Almighty Afroness. He's a pretty good guy."_

 _Phoebe, mirroring her friend's look from several moments before, literally (and figuratively) sipped her tea and replied, "Nice to meet you Pot; I'm Kettle."_

 _Helga sat, shocked. "What does_ that _mean, Phoebe?"_

" _I think you know what it means, Helga."_

" _Are you referring to the evening where Arnold straight up proposed to me in his childhood home, in his grandparents' room, with his grandmothers' ring, and I rightfully freaked the freak out, and-"_

" _And why_ did _you 'freak the freak out,' Helga?"_

" _Because…because…", Helga sputtered._

" _Because the Helga that I know has been dreaming about that moment for years. So, I can only imagine that it would have been something rather substantially pivotal to send her fleeing in the other direction." When her friend said nothing in response, Phoebe went on. "Do you know what I think?"_

" _I'm sure you're going to tell me," Helga said, miffed that her friend saw through her disguise, as she always did, and rendered her silent. Helga disappeared again, loudly took the nearest dress of its hanger and stepped into it. It wasn't until she began fussing with its zipper that she noticed that it was, perhaps, one of the most hideous garments she had the displeasure of wearing. The top of the garment was inoffensive as a whole: dark purple and one shouldered, spotted throughout with iridescent sequins that were not too gaudy. Even the triangular cutouts that left Helga's back and the expanse of her right hip and bellybutton completely bare was not vulgar. From her hips downward, however, she could not help but furrow her brow. Dark purple tulle became bright orange and pink, curled in upon itself in such a way to hide her hips and upper thighs in so much voluminous tulle that she almost hesitated to exit the dressing room._

" _Are you going to come out?" Phoebe asked._

" _No," Helga answered. "I've already embarrassed myself enough for today." As she attempted to slide the zipper back down, Phoebe parted the curtain and stood in the doorway of the dressing room._

 _Helga stood, looking at her friend, and mustered as much dignity as she could find, before Phoebe crumpled, laughing unabashed, and fell backwards into the only chair in the small enclosed space._

" _I don't see what's so funny." Helga said, hands on her hips._

" _You…you look…you look…" Phoebe said, through peals of laughter. "Ridiculous!"_

" _Thank you, Phoebe! Weren't you about to dole out some words of advice regarding my relationship with Arnold?!" Helga replied, never thinking herself looking forward to hearing advice._

 _Phoebe righted herself and remained in the dressing room with Helga. The two women had shared enough experiences, that seeing each other's skin was of little consequence. Clearing her throat, she spoke again. "Honestly? I think that you're scared. Not of Arnold, or of yourself, or even of a committed relationship, because none of those things are foreign to you. No, I think you're frightened of this_ not _being a ruse. Of you and Arnold coming together, thinking to yourselves that this whole affair is a grand pretext, when in reality, you return these mixed up feelings of his. And when you two finally get your heads out of the sand and tell each other what you should, that you might have to be happy with each other. How will you bear it?" Phoebe finished._

 _Helga had released herself from her last dress and was shimmying into another, possibly more ridiculous, number. It was nude colored and completely covered in silver sequins, and Helga needed to stare at it for a few moments to know which way was front and whether or not it would properly cover her body. Once it was on her body, she stepped back and looked over Phoebe's shoulder in the mirror._

" _That one isn't so bad." Her friend commented._

" _Oh yeah?" Helga questioned, turning around quickly, feeling a strong draft over her back. Now facing away from Phoebe, she asked, "Is it still 'not so bad'?" The draping in the front of the garment was held together in the back only by a few links of sparkly chain, leaving Helga's back, from shoulder to lower back, bare._

 _Now staring at her friend's almost entirely undressed backside, Phoebe's eyes went wide again, and her mouth made a small "o" shape. "Well…you'll certainly get a proposal with that garment."_

 _Helga slid the slinky material down her body, but stopped and blinked at her friend. "Wait,_ return _?"_

 _Phoebe was glad that she'd finished her beverage, otherwise, she was tempted to have thrown it in the face of her friend. "Oh, Helga. I am your best friend. Please don't be obtuse with me." In response, Helga only blinked again. "He brought you into his home! He offered you a piece of his family history! Do you honestly think that he harbors no feelings for you at all?! Are you so blind?!"_

" _I offered to help!" Helga defended, stamping her foot. "Maybe he needed some support! I mean, I called you when…after…when I needed you." She said, gesturing toward Phoebe._

 _Phoebe was not shaken. Any meager defense Helga came up with could be easily broken apart. "Even so, he didn't call his best childhood friend. We weren't even asked to come over until that evening."_

 _Helga exhaled harshly through her nose and looked around the small room. She had one last dress to try on, but felt too jittery to put it on. "Maybe he just thought…because I've been in that situation, too…", she offered._

 _Phoebe shook her head and threw her hands up. "Alright, Helga. Fair enough. You're the only person who could have known what he was feeling, so he called upon your acumen," she said with mock finality. "Now, explain the ring."_

 _Phoebe's tone was serious, and Helga knew that she was caught. There was no diverting her friend from this subject, and she searched the depths of her mind for a reason why Arnold, would gift her with an heirloom – possibly one of the highest value to him – if he were not sincere._

" _Well…" she began, trying to sound as rational as her friend. "…he does work as janitorial staff of Gerald's boat…"_

 _Phoebe looked at her friend, warningly, hoping no insult was coming aimed at her husband. "And?"_

"… _and…maybe he couldn't afford anything else?" Helga asked, holding out both hands out beside her. She knew the excuse was weak, but not how weak, until Phoebe reacted._

 _Throwing her arms down until her fists hit her thighs, Phoebe sat up straight, looking angrier than Helga had seen her in a long time. "Oh honestly, Helga! You are entirely insufferable! If you are committed to believing that Arnold has no sentiments for you outside of camaraderie, then there is nothing I can I say to change your mind!"_

" _Well, what did he say when the two of you were alone? 'I'm so in love with Helga, and I can't wait to marry her and grow old together and turn the boarding house into a charming little bed and breakfast and live happily ever after forever and ever'?" Helga asked, sarcastically lacing her fingers together, holding her hands against her cheek and looking to the ceiling of the building, swaying her body back and forth. She waited for Phoebe to stop her, smack her arm, laugh or tease her. But, when none of those things came; when Phoebe merely fidgeted in her seat and looked away, Helga's arms fell to her side, and she looked in disbelief at her friend. "Oh my goodness; he didn't actually say that did he?"_

 _Phoebe adjusted herself in her chair and crossed her arms, before speaking calmly. "I am not at liberty to disclose what Arnold did or did not say-"_

 _Dropping to her knees, Helga gripped Phoebe's shoulders and resisted the urge to shake her. "You are_ absolutely _at liberty to disclose what he said to you! You are my best friend; you tell me what he said right_ now _!" she told her, bringing their faces so close, she could nearly count the pores on Phoebe's nose. She nearly growled, however, when Phoebe continued answering as serenely as before._

" _-but, I can say, that I have never known him to act or speak with deceit, save for a certain April Fools' Day prank, and if you want to be happy, I would advise you to tell him the truth. From one Kettle to another."_

 _Helga calmed down, and fell into a slump onto the floor. In such a position before anyone else, in her underwear on the floor of a dance apparel store, having just squeezed into two unflattering and inappropriate garments, she would have felt vulnerable and stupid. Instead, the exposure that she felt was freeing. Phoebe was her best friend, and the reason of her statement was exactly what she needed to hear. The reasonableness with which she thought she acted in the past few weeks with Arnold melted away and she saw now that her actions were motivated by a fearful and uncertain heart and head._

" _I guess it couldn't hurt," she heard herself say._

" _Well, it could." Phoebe told her, joining her on the floor. "That's kind of how it works. You could know someone for a few hours or a several years. But love is about taking the leap and being okay if the fall kills you."_

 _Looking up at her friend, Helga's eyebrow shot up. "That sounds oddly poetic coming from you. And a lot easier said than done," she said, standing up. Her desire to try on clothes had never been terribly strong, and even less so now, after rethinking the entirety of her faux-relationship with Arnold and how "faux" it really was on her end._

 _Phoebe shrugged, happy to get through to her friend. Approaching her now partially dressed best friend cautiously, she told her, "It is. But the recompense is rather spectacular. You bare your soul, with all of its scars and ugliness and flaws to someone, and theirs to you, and while you busy yourself with putting them back together, you hardly notice that they've done the same for you."_

 _Phoebe's monologue finished as Tori slightly parted the fitting room curtain and gently informed the two women inside that the shop was closing within the hour. Helga ceased in struggling with the pair of jeans that she wore into the store and assured her that they would be wrapping up soon. Without thinking, she took the last dress left unworn off of the rack and handed it to Tori, hastily telling her that it was her final selection. Tori smiled, took the dress, and promised to have it ready for Helga's performance. Aside from being white, sequined, and looking as though she wouldn't need any help getting into it, Helga knew nothing about the garment. Her attention was on her friend and anything else that she had to say._

 _The pair abandoned the dressing room, and eventually the store, and walked down the darkened street of Mt. Vernon together._

" _But…but what if it's too much?" Helga asked, pulling her t-shirt over her head. "What if you're too much to put back together?"_

 _Tenderly, Phoebe tilted her head to the side and smiled sadly. She, better than most knew the struggles that Helga went through and the pain that she carried almost daily. She also knew that Helga, even though she did not enjoy her own misery, fiercely guarded her sadness and many of its sources. She knew that she was privy to them because of Helga's implicit trust I her, and, in being Helga's best friend, inherited some of her bullheadedness, and refused to give up on Helga._

" _Then just be patient. And for now, make the best of what's around."_

 _Linking arms with Phoebe, Helga was tempted to lean her head on her friend's shoulder, but their height difference made the feat nearly impossible. "You've grown wise in your old age, Phoebe. Maybe you should forgo the social work and just write advice columns."_

" _If you can come up with a clever pen name, I'll think about it," Phoebe answered._

Stepping off of the bus in front of the Belvedere Hotel, Helga was momentarily taken aback at the grandeur of it. She was so rarely in the presence of the building at night; in the light of day. It housed several stories of apartments and offices kept in pristine condition. The ground and top floor were dedicated to restaurants and lounges – one of which Helga hoped to make use of later that evening – and all their vintage moldings and décor were well-maintained. The directions in Helga's pockets read that dancers should enter the side entrance, but having never been inside the building, she took the liberty of going in through the brass rotating doors, pushing against the tarnished handles and entering the opulent foyer. Workers in starched white shirts and pressed black pants buzzed back and forth across the lobby, but Helga's eyes could hardly stay on one object before darting to another.

Immediately before her was a dark table with a marble tabletop, an immeasurably large bouquet of roses in red and pink, Under table, and stretching out as far as she could see, was a flooring of black and grey marble, recently shined, and accented with the lights that hung from above. Over her head was a cacophony of fixtures; a sparkling, crystal chandelier ringed in mirrors, recessed lights, and carved moldings painted in gold, all set out in such a way that could look ostentatious and gaudy, but only reminded Helga of a bygone era. She knew that her dance routine would not be flashy for most of her audience, but she surmised that if it were at all possible, the venue would approve.

The dancers' dressing rooms were to her left, beyond the elevators, and though she wanted to continue exploring, she thought she would at least survey on her way. She was in no rush to wait and pretend to dress and primp, when the building she was inhabiting was far more interesting. She thought about seeking out her partner, and an open area for them to practice, but thought better of that idea. There was no room that would be adequate, and too much practice made her more nervous than less.

To the right of the brass elevators, recently refurbished and glinting under the lights in the lobby, was a short hallway that led to the venue where the event was meant to be held. A few of the men and women who Helga watched moving about the room earlier had disappeared down that hallway, and buying herself another few minutes, Helga followed after, clutching her duffel bag tighter. She knew that her attire was less than lavish enough for her setting, but the invitation and pass in her pocket was intended to quiet any arguments on that point. The door was left open, and Helga slid inside quietly.

Where the lobby was all gold and marble and ornate potted plants, the banquet room held a much more subtle opulence. The carpeting was dark and patterned in black, white and grey, to match the marbled columns which bordered both sides of each of the seven floor-to-ceiling windows of the room. The ceiling was similarly adorned, but the sumptuous molding was left unpainted, and only the soft shadows from the windows revealed their intricacy. The crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, smaller and more demure than the one in the lobby, but were unlit. The tables in the room had yet to be set, but were in their places, and Helga found herself walking in between them, running her hands over the linen tablecloths. Even among the beauty of the structure and the room, Helga could not help but feel a pinprick of anger at the sight of it. Less than a block away, buildings of the city, of similar age and history, were falling apart. The homes of many fell into disrepair and were left as such. To think that a dinner was being held to 'help the citizens of the city', and that she had a part in it, when the reality was that those most in need of such resources were unlikely to see it, made her stomach turn uncomfortably.

She was removed swiftly from her vexed musings as a hand fell to her shoulder. Thinking that it was someone on the staff, coming to escort her to her designated area (or possibly out of the building), she began fishing the invitation out of her pocket before turning with one hand and removing a headphone from one ear with the other.  
Instead of spinning to find a disgruntled maître d', Helga was taken aback to find Arnold, fully dressed in a grey tuxedo, blue shirt and heather grey tie. Seeing him, hours before she was planning to, and in such a state of inelegant dress, in comparison to his own, Helga initially wanted to run and hide. He'd clearly gotten dressed in some haste; his blond hair was pushed away from his face, and upon closer inspection, his tie was slightly crooked. These small shortcomings in his dress were overlooked, though; he was her friend, more, she hoped, and seeing a friendly faced calmed her nerves considerably. As the myriad of thoughts rushed through her head, she moved her heavy bag to her opposite shoulder, as she usually did when nervous. Arnold's gaze was pleased, but Helga couldn't shake the feeling that having the bag, and in turn, its contents, too close to him, would alter his scrutiny, and he would see through her grand plan for the evening.

"Hey!" she finally said, too excited to be casual, and the appeal to slap herself in the forehead was strong. She continued speaking, even though she was certain that no good would come of it. "You're here…early."

Arnold chuckled, and Helga fought a swoon. "Yeah, I wanted to get a good seat."

"You have a Dancers' Ticket, right? The table numbers are printed on the back," she told him, hoping she wasn't mistaken. She watched as Arnold brought the ivory-colored slip of paper from his pocket, and turned it over to look at the back. A stamp indicated that he was the 'Plus One' of one of the evening's dancer's, and read the number of a table where he was to sit. Reading to aloud, the two walked over to the tables, unadorned, but numbered for the sake of the wait staff, and Arnold told her that he left work early (with permission, of course) and considered what the room would look like once the furnishings were completed.

"Probably gaudy and awful," Helga suggested, leaning on the back of a nearby chair.

"I don't know. This building seems pretty cool," he answered.

"It is, it's just…this whole thing. It's a big dog and pony show. This event, or whatever, is probably…I dunno, three hundred dollars a plate? How much of that is going to get to the people who need it? It's…a little ridiculous." Helga almost regretted bringing the conversation to such a place so soon. They were set to have a nice evening together, and her own edginess, coupled with her frustration made her mouth move faster than her brain. Without much thought, she slumped into a cushioned chair, dropping her elbow to the tabletop and her chin onto her upturned hand. "Maybe I'm just grumpy."

Arnold, gingerly taking a seat next to her, shook his head. "No, you're not. You're right." He sighed, and looked again around the opulent room. "It's something I never thought of when we were kids, ya know? Some people had money, some people didn't. It didn't _really_ bother me until I saw more of the world. But, you've always been a little more grounded."

"What are you talking about?" Helga asked, looking skeptically at her companion.

"I had to leave to see a lot of things. You always saw things for what they are," he said, mimicking her pose and leaning forward on his elbows. "I like that about you."

Phoebe's suggestion to be more honest with herself regarding her feelings for Arnold did not go ignored, and even though she had no intentions of telling him those feelings, having been set relatively free within the confines of her mind, they hammered against the sides of her brain, seeking some way out. As such, she stammered out a 'thanks' and swiftly changed the subject. "You know…you should sit…" she began, abandoning her seat, and any intention of grabbing Arnold by his perfectly pressed lapels and telling him every thought in her head, and circling the table. "Right here." Helga pulled out a chair that was closest to the dark brown corner of hardwood that would inevitably serve as the dance floor later in the evening. She turned it so that, once the lights were erected and turned on, he would have one of the better views of the dance area in the room.

"Why?" Arnold asked simply from the other side of the table.

Sighing, she went on. "Just…just do it, Hairboy." The room had grown warm and her face was following suit and Helga hoped that a well-placed teasing name would alleviate some of the tension she could feel building. She was disappointed, but carried on, nonetheless. He needed to sit exactly there, or she would risk making a fool of herself.

"Whatever you say, Helga. So, is that what you're dancing in?' he asked, leaving his seat as well to inspect the one Helga picked out for him.

She smiled, if not at the jest that she could dance on a public stage in an old pair of yoga pants, a t-shirt and her only clean hooded jacket, but that their stances reminded her of one of their initial evenings spent together. She'd danced, literally, around Phoebe and Gerald's kitchen island, making drinks and hoping to avoid his gaze for two long. Now, she found herself still physically moving away from him, but hoping, in some way to capture his attention.

"Ha ha," she deadpanned. Pulling her bag back onto her shoulder she answered, "No, I have to go change, and do my hair and makeup and all that. Of course, I could have _hired_ someone to do all that for me, but that requires money, so, you're looking at the current 'hair and makeup' team for the evening."

"You should try it. Start a revolution throughout the dance community: sweatpants and no makeup for all future performances," he suggested.

"I'm sure that will go over well," Helga told him, not wanting to draw the center of the conversation to her face. It was feeling inflamed and red in that moment, and she hoped Arnold hadn't noticed. "But, the…lights, and everything? Stage lights? They're harsh. Like, tanning bed harsh. I kind of look like Larry King's ghost under them, so maybe I _should_ have hired somebody." She attempted laughing at herself, but fell into sharp silence at Arnold's next statement.

"Probably not. Besides, you never need it."

She wanted to cover her face and neck, knowing that they were both as red as a candied-apple stain on a mink coat, but instead looked at him with wide eyes. The declaration was possibly as shocking to himself as it was to her, as she noticed his own eyes follow the same path as hers. His look grew wide as well, and Helga watched as his hands moved from his pants' pockets to his jacket pockets, then back, then to his tie, then joined one another behind his back. His nervousness made her smile; that she could unnerve him as much as he could unnerve her made her feel a little more like they were on even ground, though she couldn't understand why. Nearly everything that he did or said made her remember, with the same stark recollection of walking through one's childhood home, why she used to love him. In her adult years, she convinced herself that it was not actually love, because it was easier to talk herself out of when she thought she would never see him again. His reappearance produced in her many things, but most profound of these, hope. She had much to learn about him, and much to hide from him, and any desire to be close to him set off every alarm in her well-fortified defenses. It scared her how she was almost getting used to it.

Before she could stammer out another lackluster statement of appreciation, he continued. "I mean, you look nice always…you're always…"

Finally taking pity on him, Helga nodded and interrupted. He looked relieved at her break in their conversation. "Thanks," she said, simply. Another heartbeat of silence passed through the room, and Helga thought it best to take her leave, before one or both of them started stuttering again. "I'm gonna go…get ready…" she said, sticking her thumb out of a fist and pointing behind her to the hallway that led to the banquet room. The last thing she wanted to do was leave, but Helga was also self-aware enough to know that too much time in the presence of Arnold (without the presence of enough wherewithal to fully know her feelings for him) would make her do or say something she would later regret. She suggested that he, in his current state of dress, should walk a few blocks over and enjoy the outdoor seating area of a local bar.

"I guess if a bartender suggests a bar, I should listen," he said, smiling at Helga in a way that made her squirm where she stood.

"It's a neat little place. Though, its right across from the BSO, and you are wearing a tux…" she began, looking at the floor momentarily.

"So?"

"So, you might run across a wealthy, worldly woman leaving the opera on warm Saturday night, and catch her eye. Just be careful not to accept a cocktail and become someone's fourth husband," she warned.

Arnold feigned shock, before replying. "You mean it's _that_ easy? And here we were…wandering around the convention center, watching bridal fashion shows. If I didn't know any better, Helga Pataki, I'd think you were holding out on me…"

Helga shrugged her shoulder and rolled her eyes. "You caught me. It's not too late to go back to our original plan."

Arnold drew quiet then, and Helga almost apologized, though she didn't know what she would be apologizing for.

"I think it is."

Had the room not been so silent, she would not have heard him at all. She was too stunned to speak or move. She was too stunned to even blush, and the room grew instantly cold. The desire to run nearly took over, but she stayed rooted where she stood. Had she the power of speech, she would have thanked Arnold for filling in the silence with more conversation.

"Break a leg, Helga," he said, simply and a little shakily.

"Yeah. Thanks," she said, stepping backwards carefully, before turning to leave the room. Before she could exit completely, she turned, and spoke, surprising herself with the strength in her voice. "Hey Arnold?"

"Yeah?" He looked up at her almost eagerly.

"After the…this?"

"Yeah?"

"There's a…jazz bar, on the top floor of the building. We should, I dunno, sneak up there and get a drink, or something." Her plans for the evening were still being somewhat formed in her head. With Phoebe's convincing in her ear and all logic behind her, she was no longer doubtful of whether or not she should do what she'd planned, but whether or not she could. But something in Arnold's steady look made her feel braver, and she look the leap.

Arnold smiled, and watching it spread across his face made Helga mimic the expression. "That sounds like fun."

"Okay," she said, exhaling audibly. "It's a date."

"Great. Uh…break a leg."

"…you already said that," Helga told him, trying not to laugh.

"Right, sorry," Arnold said, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm just nervous," he finished quickly.

"Why?"

Abandoning his neck, he held out his hand to her, even though she was several feet away. "Uh…about tonight. For you. Your lift and…everything. But you'll do great. You…you're amazing."

Helga's grin fell into a smile of contentment, and she offered her thanks and finally left. In the hallway, she followed the signs that led her to a small chapel, set aside to serve as the dressing rooms for the dancers and local celebrities. The area was separated by curtains, with the names of each contestant pinned on the outside. Helga found Lloyd Hillman's first, and upon seeing him, allowed herself to be wrapped in a hug, and the two made small talk for a time. He asked her to show him a small step that she added at their last practice session together, and she obliged him in the tight area between the curtained dressing rooms. After a while, he released her, and finding her room at the end of the long row of white curtains, she parted them to find a single, small vanity mirror and two chairs. The dress for the competition, delivered by Tori the day before was hanging from a hook, affixed to the rod that held up one of the curtains of her dressing room.

Helga dumped her bag on the vanity tabletop, and fell into one of the chairs, tiredly. Staring at herself in the mirror, she attempted to calm her breathing, before leaning forward and holding her face in her hands.

"What are you doing?" she asked her reflection quietly, before repeating herself, increasing her volume as she went on. "What are you doing? What are you doing? _What are you doing?_ " she finished, letting her had fall to the table and her arms covering the back of her head.

The curtains around her rustled, and she guessed that the other, more elite dancers thought that she was having a nervous breakdown and wanted to watch. It wasn't until a voice came from directly behind her that she ventured to lift her head in abject horror.

"It sounds kinda like you're talking to yourself, ya silly willy…"

* * *

A/N: You guys. YOU GUYS. I have news. I kind of love this chapter. "But, Pointy," you might be saying. "Not a ton happened. Why are you so proud of yourself?" Well, I'll tell you. I don't really know. I just kind of like it. This chapter, and the last, to be honest, were a little slowish...not a ton of action. I'm okay with that. The title of this chapter is 'Building' for a reason, partially, because it was time to have a bartending chapter title. But also, because you and me, we're _building_ a story together. But, mostly me, because I have to do all the writing and I know everything that's gonna happen. But, it's okay. Because here's where you you lovely folks come in: As I already said, I love this thing. I think it's cool. And while I will never be one of those authors who ends a chapter with "If I get 25 reviews, I'll post the next chapter!", I have the next chapter ready to go. It needs a little editing, but it's there. Ready. Chapter 18. For your reading pleasure. I just need to know that this, Chapter 17, is clear. That we're all on the same page, in the same book, in the same library, in the same municipal county.

So, if that's the case, let me know. Drop me a line. And if not, if you're confused...also drop me a line. I'll clarify, or try to fix it. Because I like you. You guys are cool. You've stuck a round for a while. We're seventeen chapters deep and no one's even put a ring on it (or accepted the ring that anyone has tried to put on it), and yet here you are...reading my silly Author's Note. I love that. You guys rock. I appreciate that. I appreciate YOU. And I want you to know that. Now bring it in for a virtual hug...

Other Chapter Notes: "We'll make the best of what's around" is a lyric from a Dave Matthews Band song of the same title. Its become the motto between my husband and I, because sometimes life is actually genuinely awful, and you just have to find one thing to smile about, even if it's just that you saw a cute dog today (I mean it; if you're having a terrible day, try to think of ONE good think that you saw that day. For me, it's almost always a cute dog. Or an otter video). Also, he loves Dave Matthews Band. Like, as much as I love Hey Arnold, that's how much he loves DMB. He would probably write DMB fanfiction, if such a thing exists. He's probably the Pointy Objects of DMB fanfiction, and I don't even know it.

And, there really is an awesome bar right across form the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra; it's called Ryleigh's Oyster bar and if I could eat there everyday, I would.

Okay, that's all! Love you guys!

-PointyO


	19. Aplomb

Chapter 18: Alomb

 _Aplomb \- The central line or stability of a position. A dancer wants to maintain perfect aplomb, meaning that his/her movements are controlled and steady. The apparent elegance and precision exhibited by a confident and accomplished dancer_.

* * *

"Salutations, Bestie!"

" _What_?"

"It means 'hello'! I read it in a book," Molly said happily, bouncing into the small enclosure and eyeing the only other empty seat available. She looked entirely at home in the small space, her shoulders constantly in motion, while Helga was reeling from her very presence there.

"I mean, 'what', as in, ' _what are you doing_ _here_?'" Helga asked, looking around, hoping that she was suffering from a fever dream of some sort. Maybe she'd tripped on the way to her dressing room and was now lying, face up in the hallway of the Belvedere Hotel. But as Molly continued speaking, reality set in. If Molly was there, Marc was inevitably nearby.

"Well, I was coming back from the bathroom, and I saw this man pushing a cart of sparkly dresses down this hallway, so I followed him, and then I saw this curtain with your name on it. So, here, I am." By now, Molly had taken a seat in the only other chair in the small curtained off area and was moving head from side to side, as if a part of her body had to be moving at all times, and if it wasn't her mouth, she had to make do with something else.

"Okay…" Helga said, pinching the bridge of her nose and willing herself to take a deep breath. "…and how'd you get to the Belvedere tonight?" she asked slowly.

"Peter brought us."

"Peter?"

"Our driver. He just dropped us off. How'd you get here?" Molly asked.

"The bus," Helga answered, deadpanned.

Molly giggled, snorted, and giggled at her own snort. "Oh Helga; you're the silliest person ever," she laughed, hiding her mouth behind her small hand.

"Yup, I'm just _hilarious_." Helga said, sounding defeated. The Belvedere Hotel was home to at least two decent-sized restaurants (that Helga knew of), but, judging by Molly's clothing for the evening, she was probably not in the area to enjoy a nice, modest meal. As annoying as she often was, Helga would be remiss if she didn't admit that Molly was very pretty, stunning even. And in a floor-length evening gown of peacock blue sequins, with a tastefully low neckline and a scandalously high slit up her left thigh, she was sure to turn the heads of most of the room. "I like your dress." Helga told her, trying to say something nice to the otherwise unwanted guest in her space.

If at all possible, Molly perked up even more. "Thanks! It's my favorite color!"

"Really?" Helga asked, raising an eyebrow. "Not pink?"

Molly moved her tiny mouth to one side of her face. As expected, she'd expertly coated her face with enough makeup to draw the eye without being garish. Molly had dark blue eyes, and slightly tanned skin. Helga tried to pick apart the techniques she used to highlight her large eyes, long eyelashes and pouty mouth, but had not the knowledge to employ them, even if she knew what she was looking at. "Everybody always asks that…I don't know why…"

Helga already felt bad for the comment, and Molly's statement didn't help. She was nervous and a little nauseous and was taking it out on the first person to come in contact with her (that wasn't Arnold). She herself grew up liking the color pink, and hated when people equated it with her intelligence, or lack thereof.

"Anyway," Molly said, clearly not offended. "I love green."

Helga smiled and eased back into her chair. She began to think, that if Molly weren't marrying Marc, and if Marc weren't so underserving of her, they could almost be friends. "Me too."

"Really?" Molly asked, leaning forward, to close more of the space between herself and Helga. "Are you wearing green for your dance? Can I see your outfit?" she squeaked, excitedly, and looking around the room.

"No; it's not green. It's over there." Helga wanted to ask her how she knew that she was dancing tonight, but instead pointed at the garment bag hanging on the adjacent curtained wall, and Molly wasted no time in abandoning her seat and unzipping the garment bag. Turning back to Helga with her mouth completely agape, Molly began to smile. "Wait, how'd you know I was dan-"

"Oh my goodness, Helly-"

"Helly?"

"It's freakin' _gorgeous_! Like, seriously, you're gonna look like a princess!" Molly, zipped the garment bag back up and turned away from it in an instant. "Okay, so let's talk hair and makeup." Molly coaxed, looking more serious than Helga had ever seen her.

"Well," she began, reaching over and into her duffel bag and removing a small black case. She opened it and announced each item as she removed them. "I have this lipstick, and this eyeshadow, and this…brush…thing, and-"

"Helga!" Snatching the lipstick from the tabletop, Molly, looking as shocked as when she saw Helga's dress, though with far less joy. She uncapped the cosmetic and looked in mild loathing at the color, before holding out in front of Helga. "Do you _know_ what this color will do to your face?"

Helga blinked and started to rethink her earlier assumptions regarding Molly's intelligence. She was speaking more confidently and less high-pitched than she'd ever heard her. Even so, she was speaking confidently about a subject that she knew little and cared less about. "Uh…well, its _lipstick_ , and it's red…so, I'm assuming it will…make my lips red?"

Molly shook her head and ignored her friend's sarcasm. "This is not just _red_ , Helga. This is _cadmium_ red. And you already have red undertones in your skin!"

"I do?"

" _Yes_. And I just so happen to have the most perfect color correcting face primer in the limo. Just let me text Peter…" she began, sliding a glittery, green cell phone from the low top of her dress, and rapidly moving her thumbs around the various buttons. Her tiny pink tongue poked out from between her lips as she finished sending the message and her phone was returned to its place. "…and done. This'll be like a slumber party! Okay, hair next. What do I have to work with, besides your naturally gorgeous highlights?"

Helga raised one hand and with the other pointed to her wrist, which housed a single, black hair tie.

Molly only shook her head in disappointment. "Thank Nars we didn't go to the opera tonight like we planned," she commented, sliding the hair tie off of Helga's wrist and moving both hands to her shoulders. Turning Helga away from her and facing the mirror, she freed her mass of blonde hair until it fell around her face.

Helga stared at her face and tried not to think about Molly's excitement possibly dissolving into regret as she attempted to make her as pretty as herself. She was too pragmatic to think of her own face as anything special. She'd been sat alongside her sister in many family photos , and with the station came the comparisons: Olga's nose was short and small, her voice rose and fell musically and she managed to inherit both the soft lines of her mother's face and her father's straight, easy to manage hair. In contrast, Helga, with her longer, rounded nose, harsh voice and often disheveled, frizzy blonde hair, was no Olga Pataki. For most of her young life, she took it in stride. There was little that could be done in her younger years to combat her rapidly growing body, and when she did stop developing long enough to take inventory of new and unfamiliar body parts, she found herself too scared to ask what to do about much of it. As a result, she grew into her twenties attempting to cover or hide her unimpressive body and face, save for a few performances, led by particularly persistent directors. She would allow her face to be painted and altered as needed, and at the end of each performance, she would wash all such maquillage away, left with the same face that got her through her most formative years.

"What you mean?' she asked Molly, trying to think of something other than her own visage.

Molly sectioned her hair, and began smoothing down the edges as she spoke. "Marky got these tickets to the BSO, like, forever ago, and this morning, he tells me that we're coming here tonight, instead. I mean, dancing is so much more fun than a boring opera, it was just kinda weird, ya' know? I didn't even think Marky liked dancing that much."

Helga knew for certain that 'Marky' didn't like dancing, but wanted to know why he'd cancel his plans for the evening to attend an event that featured just that. Her mind flew to only one conclusion, but she wanted to deny it as long as she could. "Yeah, me neither. So, you said he changed your plans this morning?"

"Yuppers," Molly said, yanking two sections of Helga's hair on the crown of her head back until her eyes watered. "His dad is giving a whole pile of money to this party, or whatever, and he gets his name said first during the sponsor's spotlight thingie at the beginning. Anyway, Marky-Marc's dad wanted him to look over the…oh, what's it called? The program, to make sure they spelled 'Pembrooke' right, or something, and Marc just kept reading it. Not just his dad's name, either; the venue and the other sponsors, and the dancers-"

"You don't say…"

"I _do_! And then today, he said we should support the arts and come here. And I said that I thought we _were_ supporting the arts because we were going to the opera. And he said that we should support the _local_ arts, and that if we go to the opera, we'll be sitting in the dark all night, and no one will get to see my new dress. So, here we are." Molly finished her story, not noticing that the recipient of her attentions was clenching her jaw in the mirror.

She was ill-prepared for much of the evening. Her dance was not her best work, artistically (though she would defend it to the death, due to its source material), her strategy to surprise Arnold was almost doomed to fail, and she had no one she knew (save for Curly, who really didn't count) at the event to turn to for support. And, to top it all off, Molly was doing her makeup and Marc was somewhere, lurking around.

Helga's conversation with Molly was interrupted by a grey-haired man discreetly parting the curtain and leaving a giddy Molly with a large, black suitcase.

"What's all that for?!" Helga asked, turning in her hard, metal chair.

Molly was crouched over and had already opened her case, unlatching it in various places. It opened with a click and spring, and released additional level to her already voluminous case. Helga could barely identify most of the items in the cases before her, and most of them looked more like torture devices.

"Don't be scared; they're just my supplies. I just came up with this new line for FYF Monthly, and I've been just dying to try it out on someone other than myself," Molly strained, lifting the heavy case in her arms. "Is there somewhere I can put this?"

Helga motioned to the vanity in front of her, and grabbed the strap of her duffel bag to move it aside. It was still unzipped, and as a result, the items in her bag fell out and onto the floor. Molly dumped her case unceremoniously on the table and bent to help Helga pick up her things. Helga reached for the pair of silvery, netted dancing shoes and her wallet. Molly reached for the emergency kit of bandages and gauze. They both reached for the small velvet bag that was equidistant between them, but only Helga's eyes widened when Molly's hand closed over it.

"What's this?" Molly asked, prying the opening of the drawstring bag apart and reaching her finger inside. Pulling out a silver ring, unadorned, save for a hammered, textured exterior, Molly looked from Helga to the piece of jewelry, as silence stretched out between them. Each woman was crouched on the floor, knees and hands holding them up, in opposing states of dress, trying to ask or explain the situation before them.

"Helga…"

Reaching forward swiftly, Helga snatched the ring from her and shoved it in her own pocket. "It's just…it's just…"

"Helga, is that…"

Ignoring the budding excitement in Molly's voice and tried to stay on top of the conversation. "It's a-"

"Oh. Em. Goodness, Helly!" Molly squealed, excitedly. "Are you going to propo-" Molly said, sitting up on the knees of her glittery dress and waving her hands excitedly. She was stopped abruptly when Helga crawled forward and clapped her hand over Molly's mouth.

" _No_. Do not say it," Helga warned her quietly. She rolled her eyes when Molly still tried to talk against her hand. Her voice was muffled and perky, and Helga pulled her hand away from Molly's face at the odd feeling. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Why not?'"

Helga fell back and sat on her feet. "Because I don't know if I'm going to go through with it, okay?"

Molly scooted forward on her knees and held Helga's shoulders. "Oh, but you _have to_ , Helly! It'll be the most romantical thing in the whole wide world! And _you're_ going to ask _him_! You go girl! Smash the parquetry!"

" _Patriarchy_?"

"That's what I said!" Molly said, rocking Helga from side to side.

"I'll think about it…" Helga conceded, not sure why she was feeding into the whims of Molly, of all people. She fought aside the thought that perhaps she really did want to propose, and chalked it up to impatience. Once Molly released her, Helga shook off the feeling of too much physical contact and resumed her seat in the chair facing the mirror. "Just promise me you won't say anything…" she commanded, looking seriously at Molly in the mirror, who'd taken up her spot and resumed doing Helga's hair. She wanted to kick herself for being so careless around someone so careless themselves, but all she could do from then on was damage control.

Molly paused in her ministrations and gave her a salute. "Righty-roo, Bestie-boo. These lips are sealed," she said, motioning with a zipper against her mouth. She bent over and hugged Helga from behind around her shoulders. "Now, as for _your_ lips…"

* * *

Lackluster applause erupted around the room as many stood from their chairs and stretched. The lights over the dance floor area dimmed, while elsewhere in the room, the lights were brighter so that the patrons could mingle and walk around. The intermission was impromptu, but entirely necessary; the event coordinators had underestimated the time needed to introduce each dancer, play clips of their interviews and rehearsals on the projector screen over the dance floor, announce the dancer, and dance partner, perform the dance, show judging and interview the pair after their dance. The first four dancers performed and around the room, even wealthy and affluent patrons were caught nodding off over their baby herb and pickled ginger salads.

Arnold stood from his chair and discreetly stretched, looking around the opulent banquet area. He removed his jacket and used it to mark his chair, remembering Helga's request that he sit there, in particular. Without his jacket, he felt too casual for the room and decided to carry his champagne flute around with him as he walked. While some of the dances were interesting, Arnold found himself distracted, and began searching the tables for one of his only sources of comfort. Seeing his friends seated several tables away was a shock, but he was not about to complain. He only wished that he could share a table with them. The room appeared altered with the lights on around, but after weaving in between socializing couples and groups for a few minutes, he found them, sequestered near a tall window in the back of the room.

"There he is! Mr. Big Spender!"

Arnold shook his head under the mock-criticism under the scrutiny of his friend. "Gerald, my ticket was free."

"Yeah, yeah, we can't all have significant others on the first page of the program. Lucky for me, I came in on the arm of the most gorgeous woman in the city."

"I would debate you, but I didn't come in on anyone's arm…" Arnold replied, smiling. Their corner of the hall was dim and somewhat quiet, secluded from the chatter of the rest of the room, and Arnold, for one was pleased to be free of the scathing looks that he got from the other members of his table. The significant others and parents of the other performers seemed to scrutinize and observe each dance critically, and between peals of applause, whisper harshly to one another, no doubt extoling criticisms on any feature that caught their eye. Being in Gerald's company for only a few seconds felt immediately like being back home. "Where is Phoebe, anyway?"

Gerald informed him that she was refilling their glasses with more champagne (explaining his age-old philosophy on any event that boasted an open bar: "If it's free, take two!"), and Arnold asked to see the last-minute sponsorship that Urban Legends' was able to procure that landed Gerald and Phoebe a 'free' ticket to the event. Extracting a program, that he planned to keep, and possibly press into a scrapbook, Gerald turned to the last page and handed the thick cardstock to his friend. Arnold scanned the page quickly for the small, simple logo of a boat among choppy waves. He found it near the bottom, among a cluster of similarly miniscule logos and designs. As Arnold was about to hand the program back to his friend, a larger, more ostentatious logo caught his attention, and he nearly snatched the paper back.

"Pembrooke Hotels and Suites?" Arnold asked, looked up at Gerald. "Does that mean…?"

"I doubt he's here, but maybe his dad is a donor, or whatever-", Gerald offered, before he was interrupted. Phoebe had approached their small party, holding two glasses carefully, one hand extended toward her husband. She looked quickly from Arnold to Gerald, smiling nervously at the first, and happily at the second.

"I saw him at the bar. He didn't see me, of course. But, he's here," Phoebe said, already sounded exasperated. Gerald took the glass from her and let his dark hand linger over hers for a second longer in a comforting gesture. Of all of the detractors of Helga and Marc's former engagement, Phoebe was the most vehement (being the only person outside of their relationship with the most knowledge of it), but the least vocal. Helga's happiness was imperative to her, and so long as Helga told her that she was happy (which she did, for many months) she was supportive. The moment the ruse was dropped, Phoebe's support fell with it. Since then, she struggled to find much redeeming about Marc, and avoided him whenever possible. The two had not shared a room since Helga moved out of Marc's home.

Even in her slight ire, Gerald was not entirely wrong about Phoebe outshining most of the room. Her dress was simply cut, a long, one-shouldered gown in deep red with deep, gauzy tulle draped over the whole of the garment. The neckline was modest in the front, and fell deep in the back, and the only adornment on the garment was a line of satin-covered buttons that formed a line down the center of her back. Phoebe was a head shorter than most of the women in the room; her jewelry was small and demure by comparison, she brushed a speck of lint off of the sleeve of Gerald's jacket and used the pad of her middle finger to push her glasses back up her nose. Even so, her husband looked down at her, snaked his arm around her small waist and pulled her closer to her side, as if there were no other woman in the room. It made Arnold equal parts proud and jealous.

"Something tells me he's not here to mingle with _us_ ," Arnold told Phoebe, coaxing a smile out of here. She offered him a small grin and took a sip from her glass.

Phoebe was about to issue a threat for Marc when an enigmatic voice came over the PR system, announcing that the final part of the competition was set to begin, and after a few seconds of speaking, and promising to meet up afterwards, Gerald and Phoebe resumed their seats, and Arnold returned to his table in the front of the room.

Noticing that his wife was still silently fuming, Gerald, reached down between them, and grabbing the leg of her chair, hastily moved it closer to his. She was jerked to her right and looked to her husband with some shock, even as the lights were getting dim.

"Have I told you," he began, a husky quality taking over his voice, knowing the effect it would have on her. "That you are the most stunning woman I've ever seen?"

Phoebe, still caught up in her frustration at seeing Marc, and slight worry over Helga possibly seeing Marc, blushed and said, "You're just saying that because this is quite possibly the most expensive garment I own."

"No," he countered, placing a hand on her thigh. "Ponytail, covered in baby food, mismatched socks…you're still stunning."

"Even my mismatched Sailor Moon socks?"

" _Definitely_ the mismatched Sailor Moon socks. The ones with those buggy-eyed cats on 'em."

"Their names are Luna and Artemis," Phoebe corrected. The room darkened further and Phoebe pointed to the projection screen, where clips of Helga's interviews and rehearsals were being played. Phoebe's anger was replaced by love for her husband and excitement for her friend. She gathered that if Helga could find herself as marginally happy with Arnold as she was with Gerald, then she could not find reason to complain.

Gerald looked on, glancing at his wife, pleased with himself that he could life her mood so quickly. "Do you think she has any idea?"

Phoebe tore her gaze away from the large screen. "Any idea of what?" she asked. Gerald met her eye, barely, in the darkness, but she could sense the twinkle in his eye, even if she were blind. Sitting up a little straighter, Phoebe looked on in shock. "Is he…is he going to…" Gerald nodded.

"Yeah."

"Tonight?!" Phoebe asked harshly, trying to keep her voice to a whisper.

"Yeah."

"Him _too_?!"

" _Too_?"

Phoebe nodded, and jerked her head to the screen, where Helga was twirling around an empty dance studio with a tall, dark-skinned man named Lloyd.

"Wait," Gerald began, sitting up alongside his wife. "They're not both-"

"I think so…"

"But how?!'

Phoebe eyed her husband, raising an eyebrow at his credulous question. "How do you think?"

Sitting back in his seat, Gerald rubbed his hands together and tempered a deep chuckle. "Oh, this is going to be a fun night."

* * *

On the other end of the room, Arnold sat, illuminated by the harsh lights erected round the dance floor some hours ago, and tried not to look nervous. The projection screen was situated just over the dance floor, giving him an excellent view of it. And on the screen were glimpses of the person he searched the room for. The movement of every curtain to the side of the staging area drew his eye. If a sequin caught the light, his head would turn in that direction without haste. Arnold didn't know what Helga was wearing or what she would be dancing to or what her cue to come out would be. As such, his search looked desperate and odd. He almost wished that Phoebe had brought him a glass of champagne as well, to calm his nerves. He'd done the same thing before every dance, but now, knowing that Helga was next, set his nerves on edge. Suddenly, the volume from the speakers was too loud, his shirt collar was too tight, and the lights made the room too warm.

Before he could gather his wits, all of the lights in the room went out. Voices around the banquet hall dropped to hushed whispers as footsteps were heard on the parquet dancefloor. Arnold overheard a haughty voice from the other end of his table ask if the event was over, before a single beam shone out behind a gossamer curtain. The silhouette of two figures stood out in contrast again the only light in the room, one seated on a replica park bench, feet to one side, leaning on one armrest of the bench and the other figure, several feet behind. Without music the scene begins somewhat eerily, and the audience falls into deep silence. The standing figure approaches and rests a hand on the back of the bench. In that instant, the lights around the room slowly came back on.

Seated on the bench was Helga, stretched across the length of the wrought iron bench casually. Her long legs were folded over one another, and were covered by the skirt of her dress, a long-sleeved and high-necked dress in the same color as her skin. In comparison with many of the other garments worn by the dancers of the evening, it was modest; prudish even, but the spider web effect of sequins that traveled the length of the gown, from neck to hem were intriguing, if nothing else, as well as the flare that accentuated her narrow waist and wider hips.

She seemed not to notice her partner, passing one hand over the page of what appeared to be an open book, as if she were writing something quickly. When she finally did discern him, he'd taken the seat next to her, and Helga beamed, as though having seen him for the first time in years. Sliding her feet from the seat next to him, she followed his lead and stood again. Hand in hand, they left the bench, their steps purposeful and fluid as the music began with them.

 _Let the bough break_

 _Let it come down crashing_

 _Let the sun fade out into a dark sky_

Helga exhaled and willed her arms not to shake. She and Lloyd were dancing a traditional foxtrot, which dictated that her elbow needed to stay elevated for almost the entirety of the dance. The slight ache in her back came from having to keep her other arm bent behind her back. She knew that the gesture meant nothing to anyone besides herself and Lloyd. Stealing a glance to the left corner of the dance floor, Helga shook away the pain in her shoulder and allowed Lloyd to move her about the floor.

 _I can't say I'd even notice it was absent  
Cause I could live by the light in your eyes_

 _I'll unfold before you  
What I've strung together  
The very first words  
Of a lifelong love letter_

Arnold hadn't noticed he was already leaning forward in his chair until it nearly tipped him forward onto the floor in front of him. He was unsure if the story before him was apparent to anyone else, but even if it was not, he was nonetheless transported. A reunion of sorts was taking place, and the fact that a story could be told, through movement astounded him. Where nearly every other performance was loud or flashy, Helga's was far quieter and restrained. Had he not known her, had he not detected that every few steps, she was coaching along her partner with small nods and encouraging words, he may have thought their story genuine.

 _Tell the world that we finally got it all right  
I choose you  
I will become yours and you will become mine  
I choose you  
I choose you_

 _My whole heart  
Will be yours forever  
This is a beautiful start  
To a lifelong love letter_

Helga knew that she did Lloyd a disservice, and made it her aim, less than halfway through their dance, to apologize to him afterward. She'd changed so many elements of their dance so many times, and he'd gone along with each amendment, without complaint. Being the more accomplished dancer of the two, she knew when he missed a step, or allowed his elbow to fall, or looked too long at his feet. She endeavored to offer small words of support now, knowing that she'd only made the dance more complicated as it went on. She calmed her facial muscles then, attempting to look as serene and in love as she could, a feat when she was not looking at Arnold, and kept on arm and Lloyd's shoulder, and the other behind her back, hiding the book from sight.

 _Tell the world that we finally got it all right  
I choose you  
I will become yours and you will become mine  
I choose you  
I choose you_

The halfway point of the song came and went, a well-executed, but overall simple lift was performed, and the ensuing applause seemed to steel Lloyd's nerves somewhat. Helga was glad for it, and found her own resolve equally bettered. With a new wave of confidence, she moved gracefully across the floor, away from her partner, and pulled her tome from behind her back, parted the pages again and resumed the ruse of writing. The move that followed was entirely in the hands of Lloyd, and she hoped that her mediocre coaching was enough. When she found herself twirled, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her opposing hip, she beamed for the first time in the number, and was happy to see that he was as well. If she could pull of her solo 'stunt' as well as he did his, they would both have cause to celebrate by the evening's end.

 _We are not perfect;  
We'll learn from our mistakes  
And as long as it takes  
I will prove my love to you_

Aside from having one of the better seats to the performances that evening, Arnold wasn't sure why Helga implored him to sit in a specific chair for the entire evening. He guessed that she was nervous, and maybe needed to know where to look to see a familiar face if the occasion called for it. He wasn't sure what help he would have been, even if he'd been backstage with her. The moment she appeared under the bright lights on the dancefloor, he was mostly distracted. If he had any doubts, in their former company, that the often clumsy, sometimes crude, Helga was the same person who had landed a spot in the competition he'd sat through for the evening, she'd proved him wrong in the span of a two minutes. While the addition of makeup and sweeping her long blonde hair in a simple chignon did wonders, he guessed that whoever was behind the transformation was simply talented. Artifice never much appealed to him, and even less on the people he really cared about. Helga's beauty that evening was more than just sparkly shoes and a nice dress. He'd admitted to himself long ago that she was pretty. But seeing her in her element, and knowing that she was letting him see her as such; he hadn't crept into an audition, or peered around a corner as she stood on her toes to reach a high shelf. She was dancing, rather beautifully he noted, and invited him to watch. Her movements were those she pieced together on her own, to tell a story that was important to her in some way. The urge to thank her, to pick her brain and inquire of every movement's hidden meaning was as overwhelming as the impulse he felt to kiss her the last time they were together at his childhood home.

 _I am not scared of the elements  
I am under-prepared, but I am willing  
And even better  
I get to be the other half of you_

She was shaking. She was shaking and she couldn't stop. There were mere seconds remaining in their dance, but they stretched on for what felt like years. Helga felt her hands shaking, her knees, her back, and nearly dropped her book. If she dropped the book, everything would be ruined. The dance would come to a stop. Arnold would see it and know what she was doing. Her hands would be too sweaty to pick it up. One of Molly's stupid bobby pins would fly out of her head and her hair would fall in her eyes and she'd trip over the strap of her shoe and rip the hem of her dress and-

The music stuttered beautifully, and Helga backed up, steadying her breathing as she went. For the first time, in a long time, she counted as she moved, pacing her steps, waiting for the feel of a linen table cloth against the back of her thigh. When she felt it, she closed her eyes, thankful that most of the audience was not privy to the expression on her face, and slid the small book backwards over the tablecloth. Once she was sure it would not slip off without her hand over, it, she released a breath and smiled, the most difficult part of her plan over. She could finally dance, without restraint, and was pleased to use the final seconds of the performance to do just that. Across the dance floor stood her partner, standing and awaiting the modified lift. She broke into a short run, extended one long leg in front of her, the delicate fabric of her shimmering dress flowing around her, and coming down into the arms of her companion. The momentum of the leap was more than either of them estimated, and Lloyd spun several times more than they planned.

 _Tell the world that we finally got it all right  
I choose you  
Yeah  
I will become yours and you will become mine  
I choose you  
I choose you  
I choose you_

In the end, Helga's chignon did fall. The bow that was meant to elegantly finish the dance, was shaky and staggered with muted laughter from its two participants. Arnold noticed almost none of it. He was preoccupied with the worn paperback in front of him. It was browned from wear or disuse, stored improperly, and picking it up gingerly, he looked at Helga for a moment. She was departing the staging area, her partner walking a few paces ahead of her.

She looked at him, but made no endeavor to speak before disappearing behind the curtain that separated the dancer's area from the audience.

Brushing his hand over the cover of the book, Arnold noticed it was latched shut, and guessed that the book itself and its contents would be revealed when Helga saw fit. If nothing else, she was a woman who literally, danced entirely to her own beat.

* * *

A/N: YOU GUYS. Dance Chapter! So happy. I hope it all came out as clearly as it did in my head. Because I kind of love it, a lot. The song is called 'I Choose You' by Sara Bareilles, and it is GORGEOUS. It's very simple, and sweet, and if you watch the music video, bring tissue. It's just sweet.

If you're on tumblr, guess what, so am I! I'm constantly posting foolishness about this story, including author gripes and inspiration photos, and as soon as this goes up, I'm posting these cool collage things I made for all the characters. Well, not all. But some of them. But, I'm really proud of them. You should check them out. The name on there is 'pointyobjects' because...I am so original.

Okay, that's all. Let me know what you thought of this chapter! Love you!

-PointyObjects


	20. Digestif

**Chapter 19: Digestif**

 **Digestif- A sweet, after dinner drink, often believed to aide digestion.**

* * *

"I can't believe you came in _third_ …"

"I _know_. And to the assistant attorney general, dancing to a pop song. Figures…" Helga replied, kicking her foot at the empty air of the hotel elevator. After the ceremonies ended and she changed clothes, she was wrapped in hugs by Phoebe and Gerald, consoled by both with affirmations that she was robbed of the grand prize, before she stole Arnold and retreated to the nearest elevator. She had not much time to execute her plan before the upper floor was overrun, if it had not been already. Even so, her palms remained as damp as when she was dancing. Arnold had the first portion of her 'plan' but the rest was still just an idea, one that she wasn't sure made any sense to anyone but herself. She wanted to wipe her brow, but was so impressed with Molly's job on her makeup that she didn't dare ruin it.

"Thank you."

Arnold's voice in the confined space sounded odd, and came as a shock, and Helga jumped at the sound. "For what?' she asked quickly.

"For letting me come tonight. And letting me see you dance," he said, simply.

She smiled back at the earnestness in his tone. While she held off for months before Phoebe and Gerald were allowed to see a single performance of hers, for some reason, inviting Arnold to watch her dance seemed almost natural. Speaking to him about her feelings made her tongue feel dry and heavy. Dancing, on the other hand, was easy. If she could simply dance out a proposal, she'd have done it already. Instead, she decided to go with the thing she did second best. If he couldn't catch on after that, she'd try saying it out loud. But only in Tagalog. Maybe.

"Thanks for coming tonight. It was nice having someone here."

"Phoebe and Gerald are here," Arnold offered.

"I didn't know _they_ were coming. Besides, I…wanted _you_ to come. It's...you're different," she added, quietly. "Besides, I have a surprise for you. Did you, do you like the book?" she asked, shrugging her shoulders, not knowing how to address the issue at hand.

Arnold pulled the weathered book out of his jacket pocket and held it between them. "I do. I was waiting for you to tell me what it is," he said, smiling. It fell, however, when he noticed that Helga was not.

"You... _don't_ know what it is?" Helga asked. 'Of course he doesn't! You're the only one with a photographic memory, ya' boob!' she thought, chastising herself. "That's fine; that's okay." Helga said, quickly, reaching for it.

Arnold, however, a head taller than her, with limbs to match, snatched it out of her reach as the elevator doors parted. The lounge area before them was scarcely filled, with only a handful of couples occupying the space. It was dimly lit, with large, semi-circle couches and plush chairs strewn about the area, and jazz music wafting overhead. On the wall opposite from the elevator was a long bar, illuminated by a dark green series of lights, where a few bartenders mingled and prepared drinks.

Stepping off of the lift, Helga ignored Arnold's teasing and searched the faces behind the bar, until one waved back and dropped his towel on the bar top. Walking around the wooden bar top, the man, bearded with a mop of dark, curly hair on his head walked to greet Helga and Arnold, before pointing a thumb over his shoulder and telling Helga that the area was "all hers for twenty minutes". She thanked him and watched as he walked away, before pulling Arnold to a seat at the bar. She walked around to the other side and felt the relief of having a bar top between herself and her patron, who was currently making her more nervous than normal.

"What was that about?" he asked, taking his seat, but remaining confused, nonetheless.

"You'll see," Helga said, already distracted by looking for the necessary tools she would need to begin making a drink.

"What are you doing back there? Why are we up here? I thought we were going to have a drink?" Arnold asked, sitting up on his barstool and leaning over the bar top. Helga placed a hand on his shoulder and returned him to his seat.

"We are. Well, I'm going to make them for us. Just give me a second."

"Is that why you changed?" he asked, resting an elbow on the bar.

Helga looked down at the sleeveless lilac dress, currently tied on the bottom, so that it didn't drag on the ground as intended, with Swarovski crystal detail under the bust. When she emerged from the dancer's area, Phoebe nearly broke into tears and exclaimed, "I told you that you could wear it again!" and Helga had to roll her eyes and agree, not willing to let her friend know that she simply could not afford to rent _two_ dresses and didn't want to risk accidentally spilling vermouth on one of Tori's creations.

"You could say that," she began, rinsing out a pair of glasses in a nearby sink. "I'm surprised you noticed."

"Of course I did. You looked stunning."

"Your drink is already free, Arnold; no need to flatter the bartender."

Mustering some semblance of boldness, Arnold leaned forward over the bar. "Flattery," he started, casually. "is excessive and insincere praise, usually meant to further the interests of the giver rather than the receiver. I was paying you a compliment."

Helga set the glasses on the countertop before beginning to prepare her drinks. "Oh yeah? And what is your non-flattering, completely sincere compliment, if I may ask?"

Arnold's face immediately looked serious, and Helga felt ill-prepared to hear the response to her request. The barstool on which Arnold was seated came equipped with a rung, on which his feet were resting. Making use of the makeshift step, he elevated himself just slightly to sit eye to eye with Helga before speaking.

"Several floors below us, there is a banquet room filled with people, who, this evening, were all lucky enough to watch one of the most talented people I know do something that she is completely amazing at. And now, they're deprived of her amazing company, and they don't even know it. She's smart, and funny, and a little intimidating – at least to me – and I get to spend the next eighteen or so minutes with her, all to myself. Those people down there don't know what they're missing." Arnold finished his address, and sat back on his stool calmly, much to the chagrin of his bar companion, who stood across from him with her brow furrowed. "What?"

"You enjoy that, don't you?"

"Enjoy what?"

"Rendering me speechless."

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you're quite the talker; it's kind of nice, knowing I can shut you up whenever I want to," he joked.

"Yeah, but-" she started, catching herself, before, shaking her head and pulling a few ingredients from the shelves under the bar.

"What is it?"

"It's not important," Helga said, an octave lower than before. She was trying to make sense of Arnold's words, trying to make sense of her own thoughts and trying to make a drink that probably wouldn't taste very good. The different hemispheres of her brain were at war and there was no clear winner in sight. "Thank you. For…what you said. It just made me think of something Phoebe said to me a couple days ago…"

"What'd she say?" Arnold asked, hoping he hadn't offended her somehow.

"How about, you try this drink, and if you like it, I'll tell you," Helga offered in response.

"I'm sure I'll like it."

"We'll see…" Helga replied, feigning confidence as she began building her drink. Scooping ice from the well under the bar, she deposited enough in each glass to fill them both halfway. Without measuring, a bottle of blue liquid was turned upside down and Helga poured about an ounce into each glass from high in the air. Bringing it back to the table with one hand and with the other she found another glass bottle and uncorked it. Moving the bottle around in one hand, she agitated the contents of the bottle and poured a generous amount into each glass before returning it to its spot on the counter. Next came a tiny bottle of syrupy red liquid and another of brown, each only adding a few drops to the concoction, and whiskey from an exquisitely carved glass bottle that Helga took her time in pouring carefully into a small measuring cup she called a 'jigger'.

"And last, but not least, your favorite," she said, slapping a bright, yellow lemon on the countertop, before cutting into it and coming away with two neat, perfect spirals to adorn the rim of their glasses. "Enjoy," she told him, pushing a glass toward him. As he was about to take his first sip, she asked to see the book she'd left on his table. He looked at her questioningly, but handed it over before sampling his drink. Helga grabbed a pen from one of the nearby cash registers and opened the small book to the back cover. "So, how is it?"

"I like it. It's different…"

"'Good different', or 'bad different'?" she asked, trying it herself, and questioning her use of the aromatic bitters. Helga was always more scrutinizing of her drink recipes than anyone else.

"Good different," he told her. "What are you writing?' he asked, as she bent over the countertop.

"Um…I thought, I'd write the recipe down for you. So you can…impress your weirdo roommates with your new bartending skills."

"They should be impressed that I was the last to move in, but I'm the first to pay my share of the rent every month. So, what's the recipe?" he asked, leaning over to watch her write. The page she scribbled on was the inside of the back cover, as her hand was over the true last page of the pink book she managed to snatch from him when he wasn't paying attention.

"It's ice, an ounce of blue curacao, for color, then…about two ounces of hibiscus lemonade, Early Times Kentucky Whiskey, a lemon spiral, or lemon garnish of your choice, a dash of grenadine and another dash of aromatic bitters. That's it," she said, setting the pen down, nervously. She moved to close the book, when Arnold's hand came down over hers, forcing her to look at him.

"In that order? I thought the garnish always goes last."

Helga exhaled audibly. "It does. Just not for this drink."

"But, _you_ put the garnish in last…" he questioned, looking sideways at her. If he knew anything about drink making, it was that Helga was particular about how she made them. She was not one to amend a recipe for no reason, especially not within the span of a few minutes.

"Look, Arnold…" Helga slid the weathered book off the counter and held it up between them. "Remember when we were kids, and you and Gerald found that book of poems about you?"

"…yeah?" Arnold replied, furrowing his brow at the abrupt change in conversation.

"And you brought it to school to read to everyone, and I made a spitball out of the last page and threw it at your head?"

"…vaguely…"

"Then I'm going to wager to guess that you don't remember what that poem said…"

"It was one of those…poems. I forget what they're called…where the first word starts with a letter and-"

" _Acrostic_. It was an _acrostic_ poem, Arnold." He stared deadpanned, at her, and Helga blinked once before letting her head fall and her chin rest against her chest. "I can't believe I'm doing this…"

"Doing wha-"

"'H' is for the head I'd like to punt'" she began, uncomfortably reciting the rhyme of her youth, without making eye contact. "Get it? Because your head is like a football? Anyway, 'E' is for Every time I see the little runt'…because you were so much shorter than me, anyway…'L'…moving on, I'm not even going there, G, A, the end," she finished, crossing her arms and blushing furiously as she held her own beverage in one hand and pressed it against the side of her neck and face.

"…okay…"

"It was an acrostic poem, Arnold. Of _my_ name. About _you_." Dropping her glass back on the countertop without sampling it fairly loudly. Helga began rubbing her temples and closed her eyes. In her mind, when the idea to present Arnold with the last hidden vestige of her childhood obsession in the form of an original cocktail, the execution was much smoother. He was shocked, but amused. They laughed. He might dare to open to a random page and attempt to read a passage or two. She would wrestle the book away from him. He would admit that having read the first four letters of her silly poem revealed the truth to him long ago, and he was merely waiting for her to tell him herself. Maybe he would suggest that they ditch the boring party downstairs altogether and find someplace open that served a decent burger.

Instead, she was standing behind a bar, rubbing her own forehead and reciting poetry from her youth.

" _I_ wrote that poem, Arnold," she said, as calmly as she knew how.

"You did?" he asked, simply.

"I wrote the whole book, you dolt!" She'd managed to avoid any insulting names for the entirety of the evening, but sometimes she was reminded that Arnold was, and probably always would be, eternally optimistic, annoyingly bright, and immeasurably dense.

"That was _yours_?"

"…yes…" Helga answered as patiently as she knew how.

"And the drink you made me…"

"…yeah?" Helga murmured, finding the top of the counter less interesting, but far less nerve-wracking.

"What was in it, again?" Arnold inquired.

"Hibiscus lemonade, Early Times whiskey, lemon garnish, grenadine and aromatic bitters," she listed, knowing the direction of his questioning.

"You still didn't list the garnish last…"

Helga shrugged her shoulders. "My name doesn't end with an "L"…, she answered.

"So, an acrostic poem..."

"And an acrostic cocktail. Pretty original, hey Footballhead?"

"But…but why?"

"I think you know _why_."

"I mean, why are you telling me now?"

Instead of forward, out of embarrassment, Helga allowed her head to roll back, frustrated that she had to vocalize what took her weeks to even understand herself. "Because, Footballface, it was my last card. They're all on the table now. And, because, when this all started, I told you that I didn't…have those feelings for you anymore. And I _don't_. I mean, not like that. I'm certainly not writing you any poetry. I just don't have the time for it anymore. You think that was the only little pink book that I had? No way. I had _volumes_. It was…it was a little out of control, actually. So, that much was true. But, I like you. I mean, I like spending time with you, and I'm always kind of looking forward to the next time I can spend time with you. I like hearing about your day and listening to stories about your grandparents and the stories they told you, even though I'm pretty sure most of them are works of fiction. And, maybe…I don't know, maybe we won't ever be like Phoebe and Gerald, ya' know? That's…that's fine. They're one of a kind, anyway. They…make each other's breakfast in the morning, and know each other's Social Security Number, and…well, I guess that wouldn't apply to us, either way, but you know what I mean. That's different. But you're my friend. And that's…very important to me.

"So, before we go any further with this, I just wanted you to know that I like you…that I like you, _like_ you. Very much." Before she lost her nerve, she pulled from the pocket of her gown a simple, hammered wedding band, and with a click, set it down next to his glass.

For the first time since stepping behind the bar and speaking to Arnold, Helga took a deep breath, and looked him in the eye. She gave him plenty of opportunities to reject her before. They joked earlier that evening about just that. But now, she was serious. If he really wanted only friendship from her, he had to know what his few months in Hillwood had done to her. That if, by some miracle, he no longer needed her in this endeavor for legal citizenship, but decided to remain at home, and in their close circle of friends, that things would not go back to normal for her. Behind every movie night at Phoebe and Gerald's or backyard barbeque or impromptu weekend trip to the beach, would be accompanied by her and her lingering stares. She would look for him at Levi's clarinet recital, and sit disappointed in the audience when he didn't show up. Every date she would go on would end in dissatisfaction, and should any date last beyond the first, they may only meet Gerald and Phoebe in passing, and probably never meet Arnold. Their small group of friends would learn to know better than to mention the love lives of either, until Helga would eventually begin distancing herself from everyone, more for their sakes than hers. She was ill-prepared to tell him the scope and range of her feelings, but knew better than to deny them to herself any longer.

She watched as Arnold slid the ring off of the end of the bar closest to him, and boldly walked around the bar. She turned to face him head on, steeling herself for either rejection or acceptance. His gait was predatory and reassuring, and Helga felt at once cornered and liberated.

The latter feeling, however, was almost immediately shattered when Arnold enveloped her in his grip, one hand gripping the folds of her pleated gown at her hip, and the other to the side of her neck, pressing her face and head towards his. His hand was warm against her back and his breath left a flush over her face.

While her legs wanted to fail her, her arms snaked around his back and over his shoulders, keeping her standing in his arms. She wanted to question him, ask him why he was kissing her so ardently and honestly, but to do so, meant that she had to stop kissing him. And, that was not something she was going to do unless she was threatened with death. His lips against her made hers were searing and inviting, stripping away what was left of her defenses, and leaving in its wake, raw passion. It made her want to lock reason away in the back of her mind, and leave it scratching at the barred and bolted door of her mind until she drowned it out with whatever Arnold was giving her.

When he pulled away, slowly as he did, she fought a soft whimper rising in her throat, and found herself leaning forward, as if following him with her body, before stopping herself abruptly. Pulling in a long breath, she attempted to create some distance between them, before realizing that he was still holding her, clutching the back of her dress desperately.

Venturing to look up at his face, she found it as flushed as she guessed hers to be, and dropped her gaze back to his mussed lapels. She swallowed once, and spoke quietly, uttering the only rational thing that came to mind. "There's…not anyone here…"

Arnold looked down at her, but she continued staring at his shirt and tie. "What?"

"There isn't anyone here," she said, moving her eyes about the room, but willing her hands to stay absolutely still.

"Is that why you think I kissed you?" Arnold asked breathlessly, brushing a loose tendril away from Helga's face.

"Isn't that why we always?" she answered with a small smile, finally looking up at him.

Stepping back from Helga only slightly, Arnold flexed his left hand and slid the ring that Helga presented to him onto the fourth finger. Looking down briefly at his hand with approval, he swiftly let it fall and intertwine with hers. He felt her reluctance to return the press of his hand against hers, and sought to solidify the impression with words as meaningful and poignant as hers to him. He soon realized that their relationship could house only one wordsmith and it would inevitably be her.

Even so, when he did speak, he tried to do so with sincerity.

"Not anymore."

Their walk to the elevators was short and more public than either of them would have liked. Helga paused to clean up the bar area and dispose of Arnold's empty glass and her full one. The few patrons of the thirteenth floor of the Belvedere Hotel passively watched them summon the lift and board the elevator.

As the doors closed, Helga finally allowed herself to smile, having grasped the gravity of their situation. She and Arnold were no longer a ruse. After years of deceit and months of conceived guile, she'd bared her soul to Arnold and he was holding her hand. If thing could go better for her, she would be hard pressed to figure out how.

"Can I ask you a question?" Arnold asked, giving her hand another squeeze. Still too nervous to look at him she nodded at the brass doors of the elevator and he went on. "What's that drink called?"

"I call it…Little Blue Hat," Helga replied, grinning, and pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I thought it was appropriate, since, you kind of stole my little pink book, and I kind of stole your little blue hat-"

"Wait, _you_ stole my hat?!"

She huffed. "Well, not exactly-"

"How did you not 'exactly' steal my hat?"

Helga rolled her eyes. "To be fair, I tried. A lot. And when I finally did get it, the wind just kind of…dropped it at my feet. And, if you remember, I returned it to you, unlike someone I know…"

"I didn't know that book was yours, Helga."

"Yeah, it's not like I wrote an acrostic poem of my name on the last page…"

"Again with the acrostic poem…" he sighed. Helga continued grinning, but said nothing until Arnold coaxed more out of her. She was content with contemplating their new situation silently, but he clearly was not. "So, what do we do now?"

Shaking her head, Helga rebuffed the question, still glowing from the aftermath of her proposal. "I can't…think about that right now," she replied, softly. Part of her cursed the antique and slow moving elevator, while another part of her was contented to have more time alone with Arnold.

"What are you thinking about?"

She bit her bottom lip before replying. "That…I didn't try any of my own drink…but somehow I know that I used too much Blue Curacao…" So far in the evening, Helga had revealed her former poetic prowess, vaguely proposed marriage to the childhood love of her life via cocktail, and made out with him behind a bar. The trepidation with which she handled herself in Arnold's presence in the weeks and months past, was all but gone in the past half hour, and her own boldness was thrilling.

"What are _you_ thinking about?" she asked, repeating the inquiry, wondering if she was somehow was scaring him off with her new bravado.

She was stunned to silence for the second time that night, however, when Arnold replied, sighing.

"I'm kind of wishing that this was still a hotel."

Helga stood for the remainder of the elevator ride only with the assistance of the brass wall at her back, a sturdy wooden railing against her side, and Arnold's hand in hers.

* * *

Marc Pembrooke III was many things. He was almost always the most successful person in any room he occupied. Even when his father was around (which he wasn't at present, having left the event after an hour, commenting that a large charitable donation required him to only show his face briefly), he was still more successful comparably, having made his fortune at a younger age than his father. Both inherited a large portion of said wealth, but prided themselves on increasing it in their younger years.

Marc was charming. He conversed easily with almost everyone he came across. It was not difficult to allow others to speak on their own interests for some time, acknowledging their pursuits before shifting the conversation to suit his own. It was something his father taught him as a teenager, and it worked to his advantage more often than not.

Marc had to admit, as humbly as he knew how, that he was good-looking, even attractive. He saw how women looked at him when he stepped out of his car, handing the valet the key to his Maserati and walked into restaurants while dining in the city. He guessed that part of it was because of Molly. Having a beautiful woman on his arm could sometimes draw the eye of other beautiful women to the owner of said arm. But even when he left the room to refill his champagne glass during the intermission, he noticed more than one female guest giving him a lascivious glance or two. As a result, he stood a little straighter and volunteered to refill Molly's glass of white wine spritzer. Twice.

But some time ago, roughly a half an hour, Marc's mood faded from bored complacency, to one he could not name. It was sharper than anger and more stifled than jealousy. He adjusted his patterned bow tie and excused himself and Molly from the Attorney General and his wife. He'd been distracted ever since they'd left, and now, having returned, smiling arm in arm with her two friends, whose names escaped him, Marc was resolved to be seen.

Helga stood across the room, looking between her friends and speaking occasionally. While he couldn't hear what she was saying, he could easily call to mind the deep cadence of her voice. It was nothing like the piercing falsetto of Molly's, and he relished in it. Even as she spoke with her friends, her hand stayed in the crook of Arnold's arm, and between peals of laughter, their eyes would meet and linger, longer than necessary.

His previous attempts at attracting Helga gave him little to show for his efforts, but his previous platform for such an enticement was hardly a fair one. In this venue, on this evening, they were almost equals. She'd shown herself to be charming, amiable and integrated easily into the social scene that he was accustomed to. This was not always true when they were together, but time improves most things, and he surmised that she had merely grown more mature with time. And so had he.

He just had to show her.

* * *

Turning from the door to the banquet hall after unsuccessfully trying to convince her friends to stay for another hour, Helga was immediately tackled by two lithe, though strong arms, circling around her and wrapping her in a tight hug. The sequins scratching against her arms and the shrill squeaking in her ear gave away her attacker.

"Hi Molly…" she grunted, remembering her resolve to be nicer, especially after Molly was generous enough to step in and do her hair and makeup without payment.

"Helga, you were _amazing_! You totally should have won!" Molly stated, stepping back and looking behind her at Marc. "Right honey; didn't she completely blow everybody else away?"

Helga took a deep breath and steeled her features. Phoebe warned her that she'd seen (and was more than likely seen by) Marc earlier in the evening, and was swiftly ignored. In addition to her own gripes with Marc, and his treatment of Molly, which she didn't have much firsthand knowledge of, she was already at the end of a very thin thread with Marc James Pembrooke III.

He eyed her coolly, raising his half-full champagne glass slightly and said, "It was wonderful to watch you dance again, Helga."

Helga clenched her jaw, and fell back to stand next to Arnold (instead of forward to punch Marc in the face, as she wanted to), and took a deep breath before calmly replying. "Again? I don't recall you ever coming to my performances, Marc," she said, tilting her head to one side as if she were confused. "Besides, I had a lot of help. Thanks again, Molly. I couldn't have done…any of this without you." She said, genuinely, motioning to her face.

In response, Molly shook her head, her flawless red curls moving with her head. She waved a hand in Helga's direction and smiled. "Oh, I didn't do anything. You already had the goods, I just helped you…tweak them," she finished, her statement ending in a squeak.

"Well, whatever you did, I appreciate it. I might actually be sad to wash my face tonight."

"It was so much fun," Molly said, all façade of humility gone. "I have to ask, though, what did you think of the rose gold highlighter I used?"

Helga tried to think of the various jars and tubes that Molly opened and applied to her face, but before she could answer, Molly spoke again.

"Because some people don't like rose gold, but I like it better than _regular_ gold!"

"Yeah…"

"And I didn't even need to use that much; you have such nice cheekbones!"

"Well, thanks-"

"And wasn't I right about that color-correcting primer?! The trick is, if you have red undertones to your skin, always go with a green-tinted primer, not violet, otherwise, what's the point?"

Helga nodded along, glad that her opinion wasn't needed for this portion of the conversation. "Of course…"

"I always say, if you get the primer wrong, you might as well just start all over-"

"Molly!"

The small outburst drew the attention of a few other patrons, before the conversations around them resumed. Within the group, however a silence fell over the party, each looking for a way to take up the former conversation. Helga and Arnold both wore looks of shock and wrath at the same person, whereas Molly, avoided all eye contact and stepped backwards, looking sheepishly into her champagne glass. Marc, the one whose sharp voice cut through the group like a harsh wind, adjusted his silk tie and attempted to compose himself. He looked only slightly ashamed, more of having raised his voice in a room full of people who knew his name than shouting at his fiancée.

"I don't think Helga and Arnold want to spend the evening talking about _makeup_ …" he said, condescendingly, clearing his throat, and meeting their eyes afterward.

Molly nodded quickly, and looked up as well. "Of course. Sorry."

Had Helga not had her arm in Arnold's she would have lunged. She tried to, but his grip was strong, and he saw the attack coming, discreetly tightening his hold on her. While Helga often spent most of her time in Molly's company wishing that she would be quiet, she never would have imagined that the way to do so was to get her beloved "Marky-Poo" to yell at her in public.

"Actually," Arnold cut in, still struggling to hold Helga back one-handedly. "I don't know the first thing about makeup, but if you managed to make Helga look even more radiant than usual, then you must know what you're doing."

Molly ventured a larger smile, but still held her champagne glass with two hands and looked into it nervously. "Thank you."

Helga looked to Arnold, before quickly turning back to Molly. She didn't want to sound patronizing, but wasn't sure how else to bring her back to her former, bubbly self. "Ya know, I think you might really be on to something with this whole…with your makeup business, Molly."

Looking up, shyly, Molly held her glass with one hand and twirled a lock of hair with the other. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, normally, on the night of a performance, with the lights, and the costume changes and everything, I have to reapply my makeup, at least…a hundred times. And don't get me started on sweat!" she began, looking to Marc, and finding him completely disarmed. He was shut out of the conversation, a feeling Helga was sure he was unfamiliar with, and did not know how to reintroduce himself. Not to mention, she was certain that he did not like the mention of any function in polite company that did not involve the polite sipping of more expensive champagne. "The dress I wore tonight? Gorgeous, but it was like a sauna! I was sweating like a sinner on Sunday out there! But this, whatever this is," Helga said, motioning again to her face. "-has really held up. I could probably talk to a few local dance companies. I'm sure they'd be willing to at least give another local business a shot."

Vestiges of the former Molly were coming back. Her smile was wide, her hands were moving erratically, splashing champagne out of her glass and squeaking noises were escaping her throat. "Are you serious?!"

"Yeah. Though, I gotta warn you, a lot of the dance companies around here are pretty multicultural. Can you replicate this look on a bunch of different faces?" Helga asked, seriously.

"Oh. Em. Goodness. Yes! FYFM would cater to so many different skin tones and color palettes, and everything!" Bringing her free hand up to her face, as if telling a secret, Molly began, in a loud whisper, "Did you know that some makeup companies don't even make _foundation_ for brown people?"

Helga nodded and mirrored Molly's look of utter shock. She'd gone shopping with Phoebe enough times and heard her lament over the lack of options for her unique coloring, going from store to store, covering both of her hands in makeup samples to find something remotely similar to her skin tone. While pregnant, Phoebe once complained that if she had a girl, she was going to teach her to make her own makeup and hair products, as there would clearly be nothing for her to groom herself available in stores.

"How rude is _that_?! I mean, how are you supposed to face your day after a bad breakup, or a really important job interview, if you can't even find the right under-eye concealer?" Molly asked, with genuine concern.

"That's why they need _you_ ," Arnold chimed in, smiling reassuringly. "I was reading somewhere that online cosmetic companies are gaining popularity, because people are less inclined to go to a store to buy cosmetics."

"You could get some pictures taken, of people wearing your makeup and stuff, and make a little brochure, or whatever-", Helga offered, finding herself as excited as Molly at the idea, as they began speaking over one another.

"And I could come up with a slogan!" she said, her voice rising by the moment.

"Sweat-proof makeup by Molly!" Arnold suggested.

"Dance-proof Makeup by Molly! Perfect for night out!" Helga said, looking to her date. "Adjust your mini-dress, not your mascara!"

"Lasts all day so you can party all night!" Arnold said.

"Dance the night away, not your face away!" Molly said, waving a hand in the air.

"That's the winner..." Helga said, freeing her hand from Arnold's to applaud for Molly. Arnold soon joined her, and the group again drew a small amount of attention, this time for a far less mortifying reason. Molly grinned and offered a small curtsey at the praise, as Marc stood by, noticeably embarrassed.

"I can't thank you guys enough…" she exclaimed, looking more the bubbly Molly that Helga was always forced into company with, than before. Molly seemed to finally notice that her fiancé was conveniently left out of the excitement of their conversation and sought to bring him into the fold. "Isn't this exciting, Marky?! I can start a business – a real business – just like you and your dad!"

Marc's eyes flashed with something that Helga rarely saw in them, and when she finally identified it, decided that no amount of coaxing or persuasion would make her look kindly upon Marc. He clearly did not see Molly as any sort of equal to him, and for her to say, so publicly, that she could start a business in the same vein as two people as successful as himself and his father (who he always looked up to, as much as his father looked down on him), made him suddenly and briefly offended. Helga had to admit that he hid it remarkably well, schooling his features into a supportive smile, and rested a hand on her arm.

"That sounds wonderful. Perhaps we can even get Michael Salomen to do some promotional photos for you," he suggested, turning to look to Arnold and Helga. "He's quite an accomplished photographer. I'm sure you've seen some of his work in Architectural Design Monthly…" Marc prodded, waiting for the pair of eyes looking at him to glaze over with awe. Instead, Helga and Arnold nodded, and looked elsewhere, hoping someone in their small circle would again rouse the conversation beyond name-dropping.

"I just had a great idea…" Molly sang, taking it upon herself to be that person, though, in retrospect, her idea may have been almost as painful for Helga as conversing with Marc. Detaching herself from Marc, Molly matched Helga's stance and looped her arm under Arnold's free one, beaming the entire time. "Switchies! Come on, Arnold; let's see if you can cut a rug as well as your lady friend!"

Arnold shot Helga a brief look that was both an apology and one of pity, and allowed himself to be swept further into the ballroom, Molly's chatter was drowned out by the music and the conversations around them as they walked off.

Helga released a breath audibly and told herself that, even though she was left alone with him, and encouraged to dance, she would not. Even if he asked politely. Even if he begged. She would not, under any circumstances, dance with Marc Pembrooke III.

'I cannot believe I'm dancing with Marc Pembrooke III…' Helga thought, flaring her nostrils and shaking her head slightly. The dance was a waltz, but because Marc was ignorant of its simple steps, the pair merely shifted their weight from one foot to another awkwardly. Moving so out of rhythm was making Helga feel particularly annoyed, in addition to her partner. The hand in hers and the other at her waist was familiar, and at first, the feeling unnerved her. It wasn't until she realized that the feeling of familiarity was less like an aged, comfortable garment, and more like the stabbing underwire of an old bra. It prodded in all the same places and made her uncomfortable, to say the least. She acquiesced only because Molly would wave her over at her every five seconds or so, and as much as she was growing to like the girl, the urge to strangle her was beginning to return.

Their awkward dance was mostly silent, and Helga ignored Marc's attempts at conversation, until the cadence of his voice changed from haughty to annoyance. He spoke lower, possibly hoping that no one dancing nearby would hear him.

"I don't know what you were trying to accomplish…telling Molly all of that nonsense about starting a business…" he said, looking over her shoulder.

Helga finally met his eye, shocked at the accusation. "Maybe I was giving her a little encouragement, since she clearly doesn't get much from her intended."

Marc shook his head, and Helga considered strangling _him_ instead. "I would just hate for her to get her hopes up, is all."

"Or to disappoint _you_ ," Helga replied pointedly.

"It has nothing to do with-"

"It has everything to do with you, and you know it. Don't forget, Marc," Helga said, using his name to command his attention. "I was there once. Anything that could potentially embarrass you has to be cut out. Your future is the only one that matters and the rest of us are just along for the ride. "

Marc huffed, not accustomed to having to defend himself, but prepared nonetheless. "First of all, Molly is very important to me-"

"Oh, yeah?" Helga asked skeptically.

"Yeah," he repeated, mimicking her vernacular and tone. "She's bright, and funny. She's a joy to be around-"

"So, maybe try acting a little more _joyful_ when she's around you." Helga almost laughed at the irony; trying to convince her ex-fiance to behave with more affection in the presence of his new fiancee. "There's got to be something else you like about her…"

"My father likes her," Marc said simply. Helga rolled her eyes, knowing how important the approval of his father was to Marc. He'd change nearly every aspect of his young life with ease if his father expressed even the smallest disappointment in him. It made her pity him a little, which was almost as annoying as dancing with him. Almost. "He also seems to think…Molly would be good, if I ever chose to enter the political arena…"

Helga visibly shook her head, not quite believing what she was hearing. "You've got to be kidding me…" When Marc only breathed a sigh and avoided her gaze, she continued. "And that's why you're going to marry her? Because she'd look good on your arm at some…gala? I mean, run for office, run a marathon, run with the bulls, for all I care, but do it with someone you care about! And for cripes sake, let Molly go so she can find some dopey loser who actually likes her!"

"I do like her-"

"Oh, I can tell," Helga began, sarcastically. "From the way you yell at her when she talks about something that even remotely interests her…"

"Molly's interests are…unvaried, to say the least. And, I'm afraid, your advice is much easier said than done…" He almost sounded sad at the fact, as if he were as shackled to Molly as she were to him. But any modicum of pity Helga had for Marc was swiftly erased when he continued. "…and as for someone I care about…"

Shaking her head firmly, Helga interrupted. "No. No, we are _not_ having this conversation again."

"I can't say that we've had any conversation of this nature, Helga."

"Do you really want to do this here? Now? You're here with your fiancee and I'm here with-"

"Your fiance?" Marc asked, for the first time having the leg up on Helga. He looked a little too pleased to be at her advantage.

Helga stood up straighter. "How did"-

"Molly, try as she might, is not discreet. You may want to find a new vessel for your secrets," he said, the condescending tone in his voice returning. He took a long pause, waiting for her to either confirm or deny his inquiry. When she did not, he attempted to speak again, in a less excited tone. "I suppose a 'congratulations' is in order?"

"It is," Helga responded with all the dignity that she could muster.

"Congratulations," Marc finally said, looking and sounding as detached as she'd seen him.

Helga thanked him with a nod, hoping that the statement would be the last he would utter to her for the remainder of the evening.

"And yet," Marc began, his voice dipping low again, as if he were telling her a secret. He gripped her left hand tighter with his right, and Helga watched as the pad of his thumb gently caressed the top of her bare ring finger. "…no ring. A hand this beautiful deserves something…radiant." She jerked her hand away, though Marc anticipated the movement, and did not free her hand completely from his.

Helga curled her lip and scowled. She wanted, more than anything to walk away from Marc and never see him again. But, she also wanted to punch him in the face, and the opportunity to do so had not made itself available. "I asked him, not that it's any of your business. Feel free to admire _his_ ring as much as you want."

Marc laughed, and Helga imagined her fist colliding with the haughty curve of his chin. "You always were so unorthodox."

"That's a nice way of putting it."

"It's one of the things I loved about you…that I love about yo-"

"Okay," Helga said, stepping back and speaking loudly, attracting the attention of a few other patrons. "I think you've had enough dancing for one night. Goodbye, Marc." She said, walking to an isolated corner of the room, suddenly feeling as though there were too many people in the banquet room, and hoping for a few quiet moments to herself.

"Helga, just listen-" Marc beckoned after her, before she whirled on him, glad at least that they were in the earshot of a few less people.

"No, _you_ listen! You need to stop. I've told you how I feel about you, and you keep…pushing it. Do you want me to be rude to you? Fine: I do not want to be with you, Marc. Not now, or ever, and if we do meet again, I hope you will remember that," she said, bluntly, resisting the urge to stomp her feet on the carpeted floor.

Marc stood before her, slightly red-faced, and fingered his cufflinks nervously. "I guess this means you really love him."

Helga rolled her eyes. "Even if I didn't, it wouldn't change how I feel about you. And newsflash, sir, you're engaged!"

"So this is some loyalty to Molly that you're holding on to?

"Well, one of ought to be loyal to the poor girl…"

Marc, in turn, rolled his eyes, upset that the conversation found its way back to his current fiancee. "Your friendship with her is so… incongruous."

"What's so _incongruous_ ," Helga started, mocking him in her most childish tone. "About two women being friends?" Helga asked, narrowing her gaze and planting both hands on her hips.

"Two women who have been engaged to the _same man_? That's very odd."

"Oh, what on earth does that matter? You act like you're some…some prize that we should bicker over, every time we're in the same room together. There's no reason why we shouldn't get along."

"She's my fiancee!"

"She's a _person_! Molly is a lot nicer than most of the people you surround yourself with, and a lot smarter than you give her credit for. So, if you want to pit us against each other to stroke your own ego, go right ahead, but know that you picked the wrong women for a cat fight."

The music suddenly stopped, and the pairs on the floor separated to applaud for no one in particular. Helga tactfully searched the dance floor for Molly, who may have tired of dancing with Arnold, and was searching out Helga to reclaim her partner. It seemed, however, that Molly was as desperate to be out of Marc's company as she was, and she rolled her eyes before taking up the same stance as before.

"I would never-"

"Yes, you would," Helga countered, standing as close to Marc as she dared. Despite her interruption, he seemed to take her bearing as harmless enough, not even glancing about the room for the judgmental gaze of too many people. Helga used this to her advantage and continued. "You thought one of us would go for the other's throat, and you _hate_ it when we don't, Serves you right." Instead of indulging in another torturous "dance", Helga smoothed the front of her gown, squared her shoulders and turned to leave.

"Helga, it's…it's-"

"Oh, and by the way, you're a terrible dancer." Helga finished, turning briefly, and returning to her former course. Arnold mentioned, prior to their parting, that he wanted to show her something before they retired fully for the evening, and Helga tried to contain her enthusiasm as she searched for his amongst the crowd.

* * *

A/N: Gasp! Shock! Surprise! She lives! Yes, but just barely. Sorry for th wait, you guys; you know I love you all, but when life falls apart, it tends to do so without any regard for future plans that I have...like regularly updating my stories. But, alas, I am back, and hopefully this is the last long wait you guys will have to endure. I will make up for any gaps in updates with copious amounts of fluffy goodness. So much fluff.

I really liked that little dive into Marc's head up there, and I hope it's something I can incorporate a lot more. This is a Helga-heavy chapter, and the next will be a little more Arnold, Gerald and Phoebe centered, and I CANNOT WAIT.

Thanks for reading; drop me a line and let me know what you thought!

-PointyObjects


	21. Brisé

**Avalanche**

 **Chapter 20: Brisé**

 _Brisé - A jump consisting of an assemblé traveling either forward (en avant) or backward (en arrière), with an extra beat that "breaks" the jump in its travel. From the French term, meaning literally 'broken'._

* * *

"… _so, it turns out, I'd been asking my host family if I could have their 'shirt sleeves', and not 'mangoes'."_

" _Okay, that's the best one, yet."_

" _Well, I'm so glad that my grammatical failings could so thoroughly entertain you."_

" _Well, I'd share some of my own, but, unlike you, I passed twelfth grade English. With flying colors, if you remember."_

" _What I remember is everyone in that class hating you for never allowing us to be graded on a curve."_

 _Helga shrugged. "What can I say, Footballface? I am simply too amazing to be saddled by a one-hundred-point grading system…" Allowing the conversation to drift into silence, Helga looked again around the mostly secluded street. Despite the time, there were still enough pedestrians, street entertainers and passersby to make the hour feel more like two in the afternoon than two in the morning. The air was still humid, and she dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand._

" _You alright?" Arnold asked next to her._

" _Yeah, I think staying out late, two days in a row, is starting to get to me…" She was glad that the darkness of the hour hid whatever embarrassing expression her face was making._

" _Sorry about that…I should get you back to your hotel…"_

 _Helga felt disappointment sink into her chest, thinking that, in some way, the night would have continued, if not for her feigned sleepiness. Figuring that she would have to say goodbye eventually, Helga resigned herself to having to do so sooner than she wanted, nodded at the suggestion, and endeavored to make conversation for the remainder of their short time together._

" _So, where do_ you _live?" she asked._

" _Actually," Arnold began, stopping in the middle of the street, and looking in both directions. "…about two blocks that way." He pointed to his far left and spoke confidently, but spoke with an air of uncertainty. Helga vaguely remembered him mentioning that he was relatively new to the area, but not the circumstances as to why._

" _Can I see it?"_

"' _You want to see where I live?"_

 _Helga shrugged her shoulders. "I guess. What does a Portuguese bachelor pad look like, anyway?"_

" _I'm not sure, myself, but you're welcome to see mine," he offered, turning down the street and gliding his hands in his pockets._

 _The two walked together, until Helga felt impelled again to break the silence. The street was well lit, but the air was thick and humid, and she felt the collar of her garment sticking to the back of her neck. "What made you want to move here, anyway?" Helga struggled to eliminate the brusque tone from her voice. Being in Arnold's presence made her revert to her naturally curt manner of speaking, and she was unaccustomed to altering it._

 _Arnold paused before replying. Helga hoped that the answer wasn't overly emotional and complicated. Between the humidity, her full stomach, and her own awkwardness, Helga was unsure if she was actually speaking coherently at all._

" _No real reason…I got tired of wandering, and when I heard about this teaching job, I thought, why not?"_

" _So, the dandelion seed becomes an oak tree?"_

" _Come again?"_

" _Bob used to call Olga a 'dandelion seed', because she'd…you know, kind of float around, and stuff," she explained. Helga chose to ignore the way Arnold's eyebrows lifted slightly at the mention of her father and sister in the same sentence. If Arnold pitied her at all, he was skilled at hiding it._

" _And an 'oak tree'?" he asked,_

"… _I was just trying to think of the opposite of a dandelion. Something with deep roots."_

 _Arnold chuckled. "I don't know if I'd call this move 'deep roots'…I think I just needed a change. One that I could control." Arnold ended the statement with a familiar glance at the building that now stood before them, and an air of finality. Helga knew from personal experience when to drop a subject. "Well, here's home…for now." The structure was orange stucco under the streetlights; an apartment building built in the bones of an old and stable house. Helga asked which door of the four that she could see was Arnold's, and he gestured to the door to the farthest left on the second floor._

" _Not too shabby, Footballhead," Helga commented, attempting a lighthearted slap on the curve of his shoulder. She then realized that it was the first act of physical contact that she'd initiate for the whole of the evening. She had to admit, rather begrudgingly, that the only other physical contact they had consisted of Arnold pulling out her chair for her and handing her the wine list over dinner. Disappointment settled in her chest, and compelled her to let the night end there._

" _Well, I'd better-"_

" _Do you want to come up and see it?"_

 _Helga's inner monologue immediately went in several directions. One train of thought induced her to accept immediately, though she was unsure if that would only serve to heighten her anxiety. The alternative, however, was nearly as daunting. If she did run, as far and fast as she wanted to, she would have to resolve in her mind that Arnold had, yet again, slipped through her fingers. Only, instead of "slipping", she'd have to admit that it was more a matter of throwing him in the opposite direction and running for the hills._

 _With her own inner turmoil raging, she barely registered Arnold's nervous stammering or the uptick in the breeze that swept down the street. Her reply was short, and most likely nonsense, and she was almost glad that she couldn't hear it herself. Instead, she let her reply and the weight it carried wash over her, bent her head, and walked. She tried to focus on her feet; stepping over packed cobblestones, over a grassy knoll, and up a dozen or so rusted, metal stairs._

 _Once Arnold closed the door behind her, apologizing for his version of a 'mess' and offering her something from his limited stock of beverages, Helga wondered how she would rationalize this to Phoebe. And to herself._

* * *

Arnold busied himself in the alley by wringing his hands and glancing out at the street. Living most of the past decade in relatively humid climates made him forget about the effect of cold on his skin. His face felt constantly dry and the backs of his hands were tight after a long day of working on the boats. He pushed away his complaints, knowing that if dry skin was his only employment-related grievance, he ought to consider himself lucky.

Working alongside Gerald was easier than he anticipated. Long gone were the days of after school jobs working in a small flower shop, but the sting of their very different management styles was hard to ignore. Thankfully, Arnold was not involved in anything remotely resembling management, and Gerald was confident in his business prowess, having run the company for several years already. Getting to see his best friend on an almost daily basis was more than worth the cost of working what many would consider menial work, and since Gerald allocated the task of accounting to a professional, there were no whispers of nepotism, at least none that he was aware of.

Glancing at his watch, Arnold read the time and looked again at the back door of Helga's bar. She promised to be done within the hour, but as the night stretched on, he couldn't help but worry. He couldn't speak much for Helga's coping mechanisms, but the thought of the days ahead of them made him fret, possibly more than she. Finding himself suddenly impatient (for what, he didn't know), Arnold picked up his overnight bag, and knocked on the heavy metal door. There was no handle or latch on the outside, something Helga complained of, as she was usually the only bartender not on a smoke break at any given time, leaving her with the task of opening the door for those of her coworkers that were. It was against fire regulations to prop the door open; even so, Arnold couldn't help but notice the triangular shaped stone conveniently left near the door hinge.

The door swung toward him quickly, its propellant a man about equal height, stocky and wide, but in a powerful way. His frameless glasses and sprinkle of silver hair among the dark locks along his temple read as only slightly older than Arnold, but old enough to take little to no nonsense.

"Hi, I'm…looking for Helga…" Arnold stammered, realizing then how suspicious he looked. The man before him gave him a once over, and opened the door wider to allow him in.

"She's in the freezer," the man told him, as if her could hear Arnold's thoughts loud and clear. He led the way, weaving behind the bar back and small kitchen. An imposing silver door loomed before them, with a solitary, frosted window as its only way of seeing in. When they paused before the door, Arnold gave his brief traveling companion a questioning glance. "You might want a jacket," he said simply.

Arnold smiled, and noticed that he was already what his South American friends would call 'bundled up', and took comfort in the fact that the man next to him was clad in a simple black t-shirt. Despite the fact that this man had a bit more weight on him than Arnold, he figured that if he could weather the cold if the freezer, Arnold's jacket had to provide some protection. He thanked him and shook his head, and received a shrug in response. The latch to the freezer was turned, and Arnold was ushered inside.

He immediately regretted his decision. A blast of cold air came at him in a cloud and Arnold clenched his jaw without thinking. Thinking that the man would follow him in, Arnold turned to find him standing at the threshold of the kitchen, with no intention of stepping further into the freezer.

"You almost done?" he asked around Arnold.

From behind a baker's rack, piled high with boxes, Helga looked out, and waved a three-pronged fork at the two men looking at her. "On my last one!" she called, a puff of air coming out in front of her face. She'd prepared well for her task in the freezer, wearing a thick winter coat with the hood pulled up and rough-looking gardener's loves. She disappeared back behind the stack of boxes, and her coworker, back into the kitchen. Arnold stood momentarily alone, before walking further into the enclosed area to find Helga and her near-completed task. He found her bent over twin clear, plastic trays, one filled with what looked like ice shavings, and the other with softball-sized glass spheres. Helga focused on one in her hand, turning it periodically and running a menacing-looking metal blade along the edge.

"Hey," Arnold offered, loud enough to be heard, but hopefully not enough to distract her. He didn't want to be the cause of Helga losing a finger.

"Hey…" she responded, clearly focused on her craft. Helga abandoned the blade, and began rolling the sphere between her hands. The glances Arnold could catch of her creation, from between her fingers led him to believe that the gloves were coated in some sort of sanding material. The complete globes were almost perfectly smooth, glistening back at him from Helga's tabletop container. She finally looked at him, still caressing the ice in her hands. "What's shakin'?"

Arnold was entranced by the task, and took a moment to respond. "Nothing…I thought you had a mold for those…" he asked, gesturing to her covered hands. He specifically remembered her lamenting at finding a half-decent silicone sphere mold that didn't leave an unsightly seam.

Helga shrugged, hardly noticeable under her large coat. "I do. There's just something… _cathartic_ about stabbing and shaping ice." Helga finished with a wide, albeit false grin, that quickly fell. Her latest sphere was placed on top of the others, and she motioned to move the box to a different shelf in the freezer. Arnold smiled tightly and stepped forward, offering to lift it for her. Helga pointed to a low shelf and moved toward the box of discarded ice shavings.

Once outside of the freezer, Helga dumped the ice shavings in the nearest empty sink and motioned for Arnold to follow her out of the kitchen. Her coworker from before greeted them behind the bar, wiping a rag around the inside of a highball glass.

"How many did you make?" he asked, ignoring Arnold.

"About a dozen. There were still a few left," Helga told him, shedding her gloves and shoving them in the coats generous pockets.

"There's _always_ a few left; you're the only one of my bartenders who bothers to use them," he said, glancing down the bar in annoyance. Their eyes were drawn to a gaunt young man at the opposite end of the bar, wearing a pair of suspenders over the black buttoned-down shirt of his uniform. He boasted a handlebar mustache of obnoxious width and was currently balancing a bottle of Tanqueray on his hand. "If he smashes that bottle, I may be forced to murder him…" he said to himself.

"Arnold, this is Richard; Richard, Arnold. He's kind of the head bartender around here," Helga explained, looking uncomfortable in the introduction herself. Arnold could tell that she was stalling, but for the sake of staying in her good graces, he left the subject alone.

"Pardon me; I think another Old Fashioned is about to go across our bar in a martini glass…" Richard said, angrily, his voice low and serious. "Have a good weekend." Richard said as he walked between them, and moved a Rocks Glass in front of the delusional bartender.

"Ready to go?" Helga asked Arnold, already beginning to turn away from him. Arnold didn't have a chance to answer, and followed after Helga, watching as she stepped out of the bar and shed her coat. She flexed her hands to bring them some warmth as she walked toward her apartment. Arnold trailed her in silence for a few blocks, until a 'Don't Walk' sign stopped them both, and he caught up.

"You don't have to come, ya know," Helga said, simply. She shifted her duffle bag from her left shoulder to her right.

"I know. I just…" Arnold struggled for the right words to say. "I can't imagine this is…fun for you."

"What? Of _course,_ this is fun," Helga responded, her sarcasm cutting through the chill of the night. "What could be more fun than taking time off of my job, that barely pays me as it is, driving out of state through the night, and checking up on my recovering addict of a mother to make sure she hasn't escaped from rehab. _Again_." Helga's smile was tight and frustrated, and even though he wanted to, Arnold fought the urge to take her cutting words personally. She was hurt, and upset, and probably worried, and he could either assuage her anxieties or broaden them by taking offence.

"I'm sorry; I just-if you need someone, I'm here." Arnold was well aware that he had no experience in dealing with addiction the way Helga was. While they disagreed about some of her methods, Arnold was willing to concede to Helga's knowledge of her mother, and her mother's illness. When he saw that Helga refused to look at him and instead stared at the traffic light, he began turning away. A split-second later, Arnold felt his wrist enveloped in a warm hand. He looked back at his companion, and she pressed her other hand to her face.

Helga sighed, heavily. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? This is the last thing I want to do with my weekend, and I'm so…mad at her, but I'm not mad at you. Sorry." Helga's hand dropped from her face to adjust her bag, but not from Arnold's wrist. He silently hoped that she couldn't feel the heat his wrist was giving off from their contact.

"It's really okay. I don't mind going with you-"

Helga made an indistinct sound that read disgust. "What kind of schmuck asks their…friend to go with them on this stupid mission, anyway?"

Arnold turned fully, trying to keep the sympathy from his face and voice. "The kind that _needs_ a friend. It's really not such a bad thing." For a moment, Arnold marveled at the sheer number of walls Helga managed to keep up. Just when he thought he'd scaled one of considerable height, she managed to build a parapet.

The look she gave him was an amalgam of disgust and resignation. He knew she would probably never tell him that she needed him. Too much of the old Helga remained for that level of surrender. Still, when she huffed, rolled her eyes, and pulled him across the street, Arnold smiled a little, leaping another parapet.

Two more blocks up, Helga's grasp on his wrist was unrelenting. She stayed a stride in front of him, and the grip was less affectionate and more demanding, as if she were a small child pulling a wagon instead of a person. Arnold had no reason to complain, save for the trail of sweat marking a path down the center of his back, but spoke anyway.

"Um, I know where you live."

"So?"

"So, you're still-"

"Do you want me to let go?" Helga asked, stopping abruptly. She looked him in his eyes for the first time that evening, and even if he wanted to, he wouldn't have ha the heart to tell her.

He also decided to explore why he didn't want her to let go later, when he was decidedly less confused.

His pause was clearly enough of an answer for her. "Then be quiet."

Before Arnold could recover, the two stood before Helga's apartment building. She dropped his hand, and he ignored the urge to hold hers in return. The slight breeze only made the newly vacated spot on his wrist feel colder. Helga dug around her duffle bag for something, before walking around to the back of the brick building.

"I tried to rent a car. Nothing fancy, but… _apparently_ , you need good credit to rent a car. And, you know, _money_ ," Helga began. The back of Helga's building was little more than a narrow alley with scarred and muddied trash cans lining one side. Where the alley opened was just below Helga's window, and the remainder of the backstreet was wide enough for a car to pass through. The sound of Helga's rummaging around in her bag stopped and was replaced by a chirp from the opposite end of the side street. The twin headlights of a car blinked at him, and Arnold turned, as Helga held the car keys in front of her. "Looks like we're stuck with this hunk of junk."

Arnold took a sharp breath, but hoped that Helga didn't notice. The irony was not lost on him that they were going on a possibly precarious rescue mission in the flowered chariot of Helga's late sister.

* * *

Despite his trying, the rolling of the vehicle, Helga's insistence on keeping the heat on, and the hushed tones of the radio, Arnold eventually fell asleep. He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up. The radio and speedometer in Helga's car cast a green glow over the car against the stark blackness of the night around them. Arnold straightened up, thoroughly embarrassed, and wiped his face. Helga no doubt noticed that he'd fallen asleep, but seemed unfazed by it. She looked ahead as she drove, her face stoic against the road ahead of them.

"I was just about to stop," she said, quietly, not meeting his eyes. She didn't sound upset at him, but Arnold was sure that if her poked the bear enough, her anger would show itself.

"Do you need a break? I can drive for a bit," he offered. They passed a sign that advertised a rest stop half a mile ahead. Arnold felt the car accelerate under them.

Instead of replying that technically, he couldn't drive, Helga simply told him not to worry about it. She'd taken the drive before (though not quite as far) and alone. Arnold had no reason to doubt her resiliency on the road.

The car turned into the empty parking lot of the rest stop, and Helga parked as close to the front door as possible. Inside, the lights beamed brightly through the glass doors and cast long shadows over the asphalt and into the car. A sign on the door read that there was an officer on duty, though Arnold couldn't think of a reason as to why. Helga turned off the car and sat quietly, staring through the glass doors, blinking slowly. Before Arnold could speak and ask what was wrong, she announced that she had to use the restroom, and exited the car. Arnold couldn't tell if it was his imagination or not, if Helga slammed the door harder than usual on her way in.

Arnold gave her a few minutes before entering the building himself, and used his time to wander aimlessly and wait for Helga. The interior of the building was brick, painted a shiny white, and decorated with posters celebrating the many sights of Delaware. Arnold turned a corner and found a display of pamphlets. Despite their short stop, Arnold found a brochure about the second annual Cherry Blossom Festival, and began to read it, halfheartedly. It wasn't until he heard the closing of the glass doors that he abandoned the leaflet to go back outside.

Helga was already back in the car, and barely looked up as Arnold exited he rest stop and entered the car. With one hand, she scanned the radio, looking for something more interesting than static, and with the other, she gripped the steering wheel tightly. Slow, somber country music filled the small space, and Helga curled her lip in a scowl, before reaching into her lap. "I got some provisions," she began, squinting in the darkness to read the labels "Cheese Curlz, with a 'z', Cheese Puffs, Cheese Zips…Delaware seems to really like their cheese-based snacks…take your pick." Helga moved the bags to the console in between them, and started the car. Before Arnold could say much, she'd pulled out of the parking space and was turning back toward the highway.

"Helga, wait-"

"What?' she asked, stopping the car abruptly.

"I just think…we should take a break…"

"Crimeny, Arnold; you didn't go to the bathroom? What are you, _five_?"

"No, I mean…I think you should rest. We can get back on the road in the morning," he suggested, as gently as he knew how. Helga didn't handle gentleness well on a normal day, and probably less so when she was stressed.

"I can't do that," Helga spat, trying to reign in some of her impatience. "I don't even know where she is."

"She hasn't said anything since this afternoon?"

"Not since the first text," she answered, rolling her eyes. Helga received a vague text message earlier in the day from her mother: 'Ready to start our beach weekend in NY!' and a photo of herself and several people (none of whom Helga recognized). Since then, Helga had been trying to piece together a narrative she could follow to recover her mom before anything catastrophic happened. Miriam only replied to one of Helga's many texts after that, with the name of the area where she'd be staying, but no other details. Helga, as a result, was half-angry, half-worried, and immediately set out to find (and possibly reprimand) her wayward mother. "But, I figure, how big can Montauk be, right? We can just drive around until we find her, or something."

Arnold took a deep breath before starting again. "I really think you should try and get some sleep. You worked at the bar downtown, and then a full shift at Palewife, and now you're trying to drive through the night to see your mom. That's a lot, Helga."

"I've done it before, Arnold," she said.

"I know, and I trust you. But, maybe just sleep for an hour?"

Helga gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and Arnold was hoping that she wouldn't kick him out of the car. He didn't want to push her, but he also knew that she needed to be reasonable.

"Arnold, I understand you're concerned. But, I have to check on Miriam. I don't know where she is, or who she's with, and I need to get there before she does anything stupid. And, I'll be fine. I know how to handle myself," she responded, moving to put the car back into drive.

"You need to take care of yourself-" Arnold said, more forcefully, before being interrupted.

"I need to take care of my mother!"

"You can't take care of anyone if you don't sleep, and eat, and at least _try_ to be reasonable!"

"I can't take care of anyone, _anyway_!" Helga shouted, silencing the both of them for a moment. "You don't think I know how ill-equipped I am to do this? I have _no_ idea what I'm doing. I'm in Delaware, in the middle of the night, driving to find my mother, and…I'm…not supposed be here," she finished.

"...I'm not supposed to be here…" Helga repeated, even softer this time, her voice barely cracking above the subtle mandolin on the radio. In the span of another breath, she was out of the car and walking across the parking lot, leaving the vehicle door open.

Arnold, finally registering what happened, followed after, rounding the car and walking after her. The streetlights over the parking lot cast sickly yellow haze over the area. Helga's head bowed and her hands fisted in her hair angrily, and Arnold felt a pang of guilt for pushing her too far, even with good intentions. "Helga…Helga, hold on, I'm sorry, okay? We can keep going; I don't mind. I just wanted to help." She stopped walking away from him, but didn't turn. In the distance a car passed by on the highway and continued driving. "I'm really sorry. You…you're doing a great job with your mom, okay?"

"I'm not Olga," Helga said to herself.

"You don't have to be..."

Helga finally turned to face him. "Yes, I do. This time, I really think so."

Arnold squared his shoulders and took another step towards his friend. "Look, I can't imagine how hard this is for you. But, I'm sure your mom appreciates everything you do for her. She's lucky to have you-"

"Lucky?" Helga interrupted, taking a step back. The streetlamp made the tears on her face glow yellow, and Arnold's heart dropped at the sight. "She's not 'lucky', Arnold. She doesn't have a choice. I…I did this to her."

"What are you talking about?"

Helga exhaled and dropped her chin to her chest. "The night of the accident…it was supposed to be me in the car with my dad.

"My mom was out in Richmond, at this facility she'd been in for years, and Bob was just…tired. They hardly spoke, and it made him miserable. Which made Olga miserable, and…he wanted to take care of Miriam, but…he had to get out. We were hardly a family before, and even less without mom around, so…Bob was gonna go visit Miriam. He was going to serve her with divorce papers.

"He wanted me to go with him."

Helga sank to the ground, and Arnold followed soon thereafter, sitting as close as he dared. In his experience, an emotionally charged Helga, in any state of vulnerability, spooked too easily for his liking. "I'm…so sorry, Helga. I didn't know. But…that's not your fault."

Helga shook her head. "I _didn't_ go. I didn't go, because I knew why he asked _me_. Bob knew that, if my mom got that news from him and Olga- the two people she loved most in the world-that she'd break. He was the love of her life. Olga, too. But me? I'm just Helga. I can be the bearer of bad news, because...what's to lose if _I_ break her heart?

"So, he asked me. And I told him no. I was so…angry that he and Olga and my mom all knew how insignificant I was, and didn't mind using it for their own advantage. So, I said I had an audition that night, when really, I just stayed home and watched TV. I didn't go, and Olga did, just like I knew she would. And from the moment those cops came to my door to tell me that Bob and Olga never made it to Richmond, I've never forgiven myself. I _killed_ them…Bob and Olga. And I doomed my mother to a life of addiction. All because I was too scared, and angry and chicken shit to take care of my mom."

Arnold held back his own tears and the desire to envelop his friend in his arms. He tried to draw on his natural gift of comforting others, but all reassurances felt stale. "Helga, you can't blame yourself for what happened to your family."

In response, Helga let out a dry chuckle. "Really? Because I do. Face it, Footballhead, if Olga were here, and I…weren't, my mom wouldn't be where she is. She'd have gotten clean already. My dad would still be alive, and maybe they'd still be together. But, they're not. How do I not feel guilty for all of that?"

"Because," Arnold said, ignoring all caution and holding Helga by her shoulders. "You are not responsible for your mother's sobriety. She lost her husband and her daughter all at once, and that's bound to make anyone lose sight of what's best for them. If her recovery was more difficult because of it, then that's not your fault. You suffered a loss that day too. If you feel like you owe her sobriety and a chance at a normal life-a normal mother/daughter relationship- then, she owes you the same. Miriam is your family, and family takes care of each other. But they don't have to take responsibility for each other. Not like this." Arnold was briefly shocked at how confidently he spoke, with so little knowledge and experience of dealing with addiction. He hoped he hadn't said anything wrong, and when Helga continued looking despondent, he wondered if he'd been better off keeping his mouth shut. He wanted to say something to lift the heaviness around them. "And, if you weren't here…I mean, there are a lot of people who would be a lot worse off.

"Levi, for instance. He loves your knock-knock jokes…even the bad ones. Your bosses trust you, your dance students adore you. You have people who love you; Phoebe and Gerald would do anything for you. And…you have me."

Helga mumbled a thanks and finally met his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this on my own," she sighed, dropping her shoulders.

"Good thing you don't have to," Arnold said, offering a smile and standing.

Helga tried to scowl, but smiled weakly, running her sleeve across her damp face. She held her arm out for Arnold to help her stand up. The two walked back to the car wordlessly, and Helga motioned to get in the driver's seat. Instead, Arnold opened the backseat for her on the same side, and stood nearby, waiting for her to get in. Realizing that he still intended for her to get some sleep, she conceded, and climbed in the backseat. Helga ignored the slight disappointment she felt when he closed the door behind her, and walked around the car. She tried not to think about falling asleep against his shoulder with his arm lazily wrapped around her. Instead, she pulled her thick coat over he, glad that she decided to bring it along, instead of putting it in her apartment before they departed the city.

Arnold entered the front passenger seat, and asked Helga if he could move his seat. She obliged, and watched the back of his seat recline.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"What?" Helga asked, wondering if she'd accidentally vocalized her thoughts about sharing the backseat.

"Do you need my sweatshirt, or something?" Arnold asked, looking concerned.

She shook her head, and buried her arms under her parka. Silence fell over the interior of the car, Arnold having removed her keys and quieting the hum of the engine. They both shifted, looking for a comfortable spot on the weathered upholstery.

"Hey, Arnold?" Helga asked in the quiet.

"Yeah?" His voice already sounded sleepy, and Helga realized how tired she actually was as well.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Because," Arnold yawned. "Despite your bark, and occasional bite, you're actually a really good person. And if I have to force you to rest and take care of yourself every now and then, it's worth it."

Helga sat quietly and thought about his answer and the myriads of other assurances he'd given her that night. She wanted to question those, but felt her eyes and limbs grow heavy. "Goodnight, Arnold."

"Goodnight Pataki."

* * *

 _A/N: What? You thought this chapter was going to be titled "Author's Note/Why I Abandoned Avalanche"? Not likely, my friends. Sorry about the super long delay. Life gets in the way, hard. For those of you who don't follow me on the tumblr, I got super pregnant, my apartment flooded THREE DAYS before I was due to give birth, I had a baby, moved back in with my parents (because apparently, moldy, flooded apartments are bad for babies), and a whole plethora of stuff. So, it's been crazy. But I never forgot my story, even when I lost this chapter and the next to the flood (I was seriously considering quitting after that, because this chapter has NOTHING on the first draft. It was so much better, but it's my own fault for not saving it to the cloud). But, I'm back, I love this story as much as ever, if not more, and I plan on seeing it through to the end. For all those who reached out, and kept hope alive, thank you so much! I'm so happy to be back!_

 _The next couple chapters will revolve around this epic road trip (yes, this is a fake relationship/road trip AU…what can I say, I love them both), so stay tuned. And if you're missing Phoebe and Gerald, they'll be back soon, with their own drama. SO much drama. Haha. I'm evil. Oh, and the head bartender, Richard is based off of my awesomesauce husband, and actual former bartender who likes to advise me when I'm getting a little too hipsterish with my cocktail descriptions._

 _Thanks again for reading, and please let me know what you thought of this chapter. Or just yell at me for being so horribly absent. Either way._

 _Mwah!_

 _PointyObjects_


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